Stepan was in high spirits. After returning from a supposed week-long «business trip,» he headed straight to the back of the garages, where his old friends gathered. It was their sanctuary — a place filled with the smell of cigarettes, cheap beer, and stories too scandalous to be shared elsewhere.

With a sly smile, Stepan launched into his tale:

— Boys, you wouldn’t believe the week I just had. Lariska… she’s a force of nature. No fights, no complaints, just fun, laughter, and passion from morning till night.

His friends listened, wide-eyed, hanging on every word. Some chuckled, others shook their heads in admiration. To them, Stepan was a legend. Living the dream they dared not even voice, trapped as they were in routines of work, mortgages, children, and responsibility.

— What if your wife finds out? — one of them asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Stepan shrugged casually.

— Svetlana? Please. Where’s she gonna go? She’s gotten used to me. She needs me. Nobody else would want her anyway.

Laughter erupted around him. Stepan basked in the admiration, feeling invincible.

After another round of jokes and back-slapping, he decided to head home. Victory fresh in his mind, he walked up the stairs to his apartment, confident as ever.

He rang the doorbell. The door swung open almost immediately. There stood Svetlana. But something was off. No anger, no tears. Just a strange, cold smile playing on her lips.

— Hey, darling, — Stepan greeted her awkwardly, trying to sound nonchalant.

Svetlana stepped aside silently. He entered, kicked off his shoes, and was about to head to the living room when he noticed something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

On the table were boxes. His shirts, his trousers, his shoes — neatly packed and labeled: «Goodbye,» «Farewell,» «You’re not coming back.»

A wave of panic washed over him. He turned to Svetlana, who was standing motionless, her arms crossed, her eyes unreadable. She pressed a button on the remote without saying a word.

The TV screen flickered to life.

And there he was — Stepan himself — wrapped around Lariska on a sunlit beach, whispering into her ear at a candlelit restaurant, carrying her across the threshold of a rented house.

The footage was clear, damning, inescapable.

Stepan’s mouth went dry. He tried to stammer out a defense:

— It’s not what it looks like…

Svetlana let out a soft laugh, colder than ice.

— You’re right, — she said. — It’s worse than it looks.

Behind her were several suitcases, neatly lined up by the door. Among them was a small pink backpack — their daughter’s.

— Let’s talk, please, — Stepan pleaded, feeling the ground slip from beneath his feet.

Svetlana shook her head slowly.

— You’ll hear from my lawyer tomorrow, — she said simply, before turning and walking away without another word.

Stepan was left standing there, rooted to the spot, surrounded by the wreckage of his life.

Just hours earlier, he had been the hero among his friends. Now he was nothing but a man defeated by his own arrogance.

Outside, rain began to fall, tapping against the windows like a slow, steady drumbeat marking the end of everything he thought was secure.

That night, Stepan learned a lesson he would carry forever.

Some mistakes cannot be undone.

Some doors, once closed, stay closed for good.

And no amount of laughter or bravado can shield you from the consequences of betrayal.