He never suspected that his wife — a professional accountant — had been preparing her own “gift” for him for years…

— I transferred everything. We have nothing left.

Gábor said it with the same careless ease he once used to toss his car keys onto the dresser. He didn’t even look at me as he loosened his expensive tie — the one I had given him for our last wedding anniversary.

I froze for a moment, a plate still in my hands. Not from pain. Not from shock. But from that strange, almost physical sensation — as if a thin string inside my chest had suddenly tightened, ready to snap into sound.

Ten years. I had waited ten long years for this moment. Patiently, like a spider, I had woven my web deep inside his business — among dry financial reports and endless rows of numbers, where revenge can grow quietly and unnoticed.

— What exactly do you mean by “everything,” Gábor? — I asked calmly, my voice smooth and cold, like ice. I slowly placed the plate on the table.

He finally turned toward me. There was poorly hidden triumph in his eyes. He expected tears. A scene. Humiliation. He would get none of it.

— The house. The company. The accounts. All of it, Anna, — he savored every word. — I’m starting over. A new life.

— With Éva? — I asked softly.

His face tightened for a split second. He hadn’t expected me to know. Men are naïve. They believe a woman who can track every cent of a multi-million-dollar company won’t notice “business expenses” that quietly fund a second life.

— That’s none of your business! — he snapped. — I’ll leave you the car. And the apartment for a few months. I’m not a monster.

He smiled. The smile of a well-fed predator, convinced the prey was already trapped.

I slowly sat down across from him and rested my hands on the table.

— So everything we built together for fifteen years, you simply gave away to another woman? As a gift?

— This is business, Anna! You don’t understand it! — his voice rose. — An investment! In my future! In my freedom!

His future. Not ours.

— I understand perfectly, — I nodded. — I’m an accountant. And I understand investments very well. Especially high-risk ones.

He didn’t know that from the day I first saw the message on his phone — “I’m waiting for you, sweetheart” — I began preparing my answer. Not with shouting. Not with tears. But with a folder on my computer labeled: Reserve.

— Did you sign the donation agreement for your company shares? — I asked casually, as if discussing the weather.

— What’s it to you?! — he exploded. — It’s over! Get out!

— I’m just curious, — I smiled faintly. — Do you remember the clause we added to the company charter back in 2012?

The one about transferring shares to a third party. Without the notarized written consent of the other founding partner.

His smile collapsed like a badly fitted mask.

— That clause doesn’t exist!

— It does. Horizont Ltd. Two founders. Fifty-fifty. Clause 7.4, subsection B. Any transfer — sale or donation — is invalid without my notarized written consent.

I spoke calmly, clearly. Each word landed with precision.

— You’re lying! — he grabbed his phone. — I’ll call Viktor!

— Go ahead, — I shrugged. — Dr. Viktor Farkas authenticated the charter. He keeps everything. Obsessively.

The call didn’t last long.

When he turned back to me, panic was written all over his face.

— This… this is impossible! I’ll take you to court!

— Please do, — I replied calmly. — But remember: attempting to remove company assets as a managing director qualifies as criminal fraud. Especially at this scale.

He collapsed into the chair. The predator was gone. In front of me sat a man backed into a corner.

— What do you want? — he whispered. — Money? How much?

I stood up.

— I want balance.
You resign as director.
You transfer your shares to me.
And I don’t file criminal charges.

Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, he murmured:

— Give me a pen…

He signed slowly. Each signature seemed to drain something from him.

I gathered the documents neatly.

— You have one hour to pack your things, — I said. — Leave the keys on the table.

— And Éva? — he asked quietly.

I paused at the door.

— She’ll receive the financial statements too. I believe in transparency.

I walked out.

The evening was cold and clear.

Ten years of waiting were over.

I didn’t take revenge.
I simply closed the books.

And for the first time in years, the numbers finally balanced perfectly.