I departed quietly from the scene, leaving behind a whirlwind of emotions.
By morning, everyone had learned my true identity.
“Have you lost all shame, you beggar?” Valentina Petrovna seized my arm in the restaurant.
“Do you think I don’t notice how you’ve latched on to my Artyom?”
“A second-hand dress, worn-out shoes… You better disappear before I hand you over to the bouncers!”
“Mom, stop!” Artyom attempted to intervene, yet she shoved him aside.
“Be quiet!”
“I know people like you,” she declared.
“A poor student renting a corner in a dorm, thinking she can infiltrate a respectable family!”
“How much did my son pay you for this charade?”
I silently removed my ring, placed it on the table, and walked away.
Behind me, I heard Artyom screaming at his mother, yet I did not turn back.
My encounter with Artyom had been entirely coincidental — we met in line at the university cafeteria.
He was teaching in the adjacent building and had come to grab lunch.
He noticed me counting small coins for a tray of buckwheat and quietly paid for my chop as I blushed and remarked,
“You don’t have to do that.”
“A student?” he smiled.
“I’ve been there myself.”
“My name is Artyom.”
We secretly met for six months.
I felt embarrassed by my tiny rented room in Medvedkovo, my faded jeans, and the fact that I wore the same dress on our dates repeatedly.
Artyom laughed, assuring me that he didn’t love me because of my clothing.
“Masha, why are you so childlike?” he’d hug me after one of my worries about meeting up.
“I don’t care that you rent,” he insisted.
“I love you, not your bank account.”
He rarely spoke much about his parents.
His father owned a chain of car dealerships, while his mother epitomized the image of a societal lioness.
“Strict but fair,” he had described her.
As it would turn out, he had lied.
We planned to celebrate our engagement at a restaurant — Artyom was adamant.
He expressed his desire to finally introduce me to his parents, declaring it was time to stop playing hide-and-seek.
I spent three days selecting a dress from regular chain stores.
Eventually, I settled on a dark blue piece — fitted, modest, and elegant.
I borrowed shoes from a neighbor in the dorm.
I did my makeup to the best of my ability.
As soon as I entered, Valentina Petrovna assessed me with a piercing gaze, and I instantly realized I was doomed.
“So, this is Masha?” she sneered, not even extending her hand.
“Artyom has told me a lot about you…”
Artyom’s father, Viktor Stepanovitj, turned out to be a more straightforward person.
He shook my hand, smiled warmly, and even pulled out my chair.
But his wife quickly put him in his place with just a single glare.
The first hour was filled with tense conversations.
Valentina Petrovna interrogated me about my parents (who passed away when I was fifteen), my job (I work as a private tutor), and my living situation (I rent a room).
With each reply, her expression soured further.
“And how do you make ends meet, dear?” she asked ostentatiously loud when the waiter brought the main course.
“Scholarship and odd jobs.”
“That suffices?”
“It suffices?” she laughed.
“Is that enough to afford this dress from last year’s Zara collection?”
“Mom!” Artyom squeezed my hand under the table.
“What do you mean, ‘mom’?”
“I have the right to know what kind of girl you’re bringing into our family!”
Key Insight: The peak of tension came when dessert was served.
Valentina Petrovna had already consumed three glasses of wine and completely lost her composure.
“You know, Masha,” she began with a sickeningly sweet tone, “I have discovered everything about you.
“Top student, orphan, surviving on a scholarship… Touching.
“But my son deserves better than a beggar from a dormitory.”
“Mom, stop it right now!” Artyom stood up from the table.
“Sit down!” she barked.
“I’m not finished!”
She turned to me:
“How much do you need to disappear?”
“Five hundred thousand? A million? Name your price.”
A hush fell over the restaurant.
At nearby tables, patrons ceased chewing and stared at us.
The waitstaff froze in place.
“I’m not for sale,” I replied quietly.
“Everyone is for sale, dear. It’s only the price that differs.
“Yours isn’t particularly high.”
As she saw me reaching for my bag, she grabbed my arm.
She assumed I intended to flee, and that began the tirade about beggars and bouncers.
Artyom phoned throughout the night.
I did not respond.
By morning, I received a message: “I’m sorry. I’m not speaking to her anymore. I love you.”
I chose not to reply.
At seven in the morning, there was a knock at the door.
Valentina Petrovna stood at the threshold.
Without any makeup, dressed in a simple tracksuit, she appeared as an ordinary, weary woman.
“May I come in?”
“Why?” I didn’t open the door any wider.
“Artyom… He left yesterday.”
“He said that if I didn’t apologize, he wouldn’t speak to me again.”
“Never.”
“And you came here to apologize?”
She fell silent for a moment.
Then, she produced her phone:
“Last night, Georgij Pavlovitj Medvedev called me.
“Do you know him?”
I remained silent.
“He’s the owner of Medvedev-Development.
“He said I had insulted his goddaughter.
“His only heiress.”
“And?”
“Masha… Forgive me.
“I didn’t know…”
“That I’m not a beggar?” I interrupted.
“That my grandfather left me a stake in the company that I receive when I turn twenty-five?
“That I intentionally live on a scholarship to learn to achieve everything myself?
“That I wear simple clothes because I don’t want to flaunt money at the university?”
Valentina Petrovna lowered her gaze.
“You know what?” I smiled wearily.
“You were right.
“I truly am not suited for Artyom.
“Not because I’m a beggar girl.
“But because he still hasn’t learned to stand up to you.
“Goodbye.”
I shut the door.
An hour later, I received a message from Artyom: “Mom said you refused to see me. Said something about the inheritance. Masha, I don’t care about the money. I love you.”
I deleted the next message without reading it.
One month later, we happened to cross paths at the same university.
Artyom appeared skinny and broken.
He rushed toward me:
“Masha, let’s talk!”
“I have no contact with my mom.”
“I’m renting an apartment; I live alone.”
“Artyom,” I stopped him, “you’re a good person.
“But do you know what I realized that night?”
“Your mother unveiled the truth to me.
“Not about me — about you.
“You didn’t protect me.
“You let her humiliate me in front of everyone and then apologized through messages.
“But I…”
“You left her?”
“But what were you doing at that moment when she called me a beggar girl?”
“Did you say, ‘Mom, stop’?”
“For real?”
He fell silent.
“I don’t need a man who defends me after the fact.
“Goodbye.”
Three years later, I graduated with the highest marks.
I claimed my inheritance rights.
I opened my clinic.
During the inauguration, I received a massive bouquet of roses without a sender’s name.
The guard informed me that a man in his thirties had left it, asking that the name not be mentioned.
Some bridges are better burned completely.
So that not even the ashes remind you they once existed.
