“I know everything, Vitya,” Larisa said quietly, as if talking to herself. “About Kirill. About Nadya from Nizhny. About the alimony you paid until last year.”
Her voice was astonishingly calm, too calm for such a conversation—like someone who had long accepted their pain and was now merely stating the facts.
“Lara…” he began, reaching out his hand, but she gently yet decisively pulled away.
“Let me finish. I know his name, when he was born—two weeks early, in March. I know he’s allergic to citrus, and that playing football is his favorite pastime. And I know that his mother died of cancer a year ago.”
Viktor sat motionless, gazing past her. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket—a habitual gesture that betrayed his nervousness.
“How long have you known about this?”
“Three years,” she replied without hesitation. “Remember when you forgot your phone before that business trip? I got a message from her. I couldn’t help myself—I read through the messages.”
Larisa remembered that day as if it had happened yesterday. How her hands trembled as she scrolled through the messages. How hard it was to breathe as she learned new details. How she later sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring tea that had long since gone cold.
