Just rest, dear,” Stas’s sticky voice sounded overly caring. “A couple of weeks in a good sanatorium — and you’ll be fine again. You’ll regain your strength.”
I tried to focus my gaze on my husband. My head was buzzing like it was stuffed with wet cotton.
“I don’t want to go to a sanatorium,” I whispered.
Tamara Igorevna, my mother-in-law, who was sitting in front, snorted with a short, dry chuckle.
“If you don’t want to, then you have to. You’ve completely worn yourself out. You scream, you don’t sleep at night, you lash out at people.”
She didn’t even turn around. Her eyes were fixed on the road. And for me, the past few weeks had turned into a nightmare.
They both insisted to me: I was losing control of myself. Things I put in one place would disappear, only to be found later in the strangest corners. They said I spoke words I didn’t remember.
The car turned off the highway. Instead of the promised spa resort, a gray, massive building with barred windows appeared before us. A sign on the facade read: “Center for Psycho-Emotional Correction ‘Harmony.’”
My heart stopped.
“This is not a sanatorium.”
“It’s even better,” Tamara Igorevna sharply interrupted while Stas parked the car. “They’ll definitely help here.”
Stas pulled me out of the car. He avoided my gaze; his hand was sticky and trembling. Two orderlies in white coats were already waiting at the entrance.
“We’re leaving her under your care,” my mother-in-law beamed, handing over some documents. “Full course. Paid in advance.”
Her eyes glowed with cold triumph. Only then did it dawn on me: all this time they had been deceiving me. It had nothing to do with my health.
They led me down endless corridors smelling of medicine and antiseptic. They took my bag and phone. I didn’t resist — everything was predetermined.
“The chief doctor will see you now,” a nurse said curtly near a heavy door.
I entered. By the window stood a tall man in a perfectly ironed white coat.
“Hello,” I said, my voice surprising me with its confidence.
The man slowly turned around.
And the world swayed. Before me was Arseny. My ex, who had disappeared ten years ago. The very man whose career I once saved by taking the blame for his mistake.
He looked at me, and shock, pain, guilt flickered in his eyes. He recognized me. Of course, he recognized me.
My beloved husband and mother-in-law had sent me to this clinic to seize the inheritance, but they didn’t know one thing: the chief doctor was the person whose life I had saved.
A faint smile appeared on my lips. Looks like the game was just beginning.
“Arseny? What a surprise,” I said softly. “Are you the boss here now?”
He swallowed, unable to look away.
“Alina… What are you doing here?”
“Getting treatment,” I replied, stepping forward. “That’s what my husband says. What do you think? Do I look crazy?”
Arseny walked around the desk, took a folder with my records — the same one Stas and his mother had brought. His fingers nervously flipped through the pages, trying to regain his professional mask.
“The papers state that you’ve recently had outbursts of aggression, memory lapses, depression…”
“You can write anything in the papers if you really want to get access to your wife’s money,” I interrupted. “Since my father died six months ago, I inherited everything. They couldn’t stand it.”
I stepped closer and looked into his eyes.
“Remember how I covered for you back then? How I left my residency so you could continue your career? So you could become the chief doctor?”
He shuddered as if I had hit him.
“I haven’t forgotten anything, Alina.”
“Then prove it.”
He thought for a second, then pressed the selector button.
“Valentina, come in.”
A middle-aged woman in a white coat with a sharp, keen gaze entered the office.
“Patient Alina Vorontsova is placed in room seven, VIP wing. Prescribe mild herbal sedatives and vitamins. No strong drugs without my permission. I’m personally overseeing the patient.”
The nurse was surprised but didn’t dare object.
When she led me away, I noticed a hidden signal in Arseny’s eyes: “Trust me. I’m on your side.”
The room looked more like a hotel room: a comfortable bed, a private bathroom, even a window without bars overlooking the garden.
In the evening, Valentina came to me with a tray and a glass of pills.
“Take these,” she smiled sweetly. “The doctor prescribed them. For sleep.”
I looked at the pills. She was clearly on their side. Bought.
“I sleep fine,” I answered. “But thanks.”
“Arseny Igorevich insisted,” her smile tightened.
I took the glass and some water. As soon as she left, I spat the pills into my palm. White and one yellow. Not like “mild sedatives.”
I hid them in my pocket. It was the first proof.
I had to act. Arseny gave me a chance, but it might be limited. I couldn’t wait.
I had to prove myself that I was brought here by deceit and force. I needed an ally. Or at least a phone.
Hearing the corridor was quiet, I began to make a plan. Risky, bold, but the only possible one.
And the key was Valentina. She loved money. And I still had enough.
The next morning I waited for her, sitting on the bed, collected and calm.
“Valentina, let’s talk. I have a business proposal.”
She hesitated, but curiosity won.
“What kind?”
“I know my husband and mother-in-law paid you to give me different medicines than the doctor prescribed,” I said softly but firmly. “No need to deny it. I’m not going to report you. On the contrary — I want to pay you more.”
Her face went pale.
“I don’t understand…”
“You do. And very well. Did they give you two hundred thousand? Three hundred? I’ll give you a million. I can sign a receipt right now. For one favor.”
The word “million” worked.
“What favor?”
“I need a phone. For at least an hour. And for you to confirm that I have been sane since admission.”
She didn’t hesitate long. Within half an hour, Valentina’s phone was in my hands.
First thing I did was call my lawyer, Igor. Explained the situation. He immediately knew what to do. Then I called Stas.
“Darling,” I purred into the phone, turning on the recording. “I realized everything. You were right. Come get me out of here. I’ll sign whatever is needed.”
Stas instantly took the bait:
“Good girl! Tomorrow we’ll come with mom, bring the papers.”
The next day they arrived — pleased, ready to celebrate victory. Arseny showed them to the office where I was waiting — in my clothes, not a hospital gown.
“Alina? Where is…?” Stas began.
“Where’s the insane wife ready to sign everything?” I smirked. “She never existed.”
Tamara Igorevna flushed.
“Why aren’t you in the ward?”
“Because I’m not a patient,” Arseny replied calmly. “But you’re in serious trouble now. Fraud, illegal imprisonment…”
The door opened. My lawyer entered holding a recorder.
“Good afternoon. I suggest we discuss this,” he placed the device on the table. “And the testimony of witness nurse Valentina. And the examination of those drugs they tried to give my client.”
Stas’s face turned pale. Tamara Igorevna opened and closed her mouth convulsively. Their perfect plan collapsed like a house of cards.
I looked at them with no anger. Only contempt. My revenge wasn’t in prison for them, but in taking everything they wanted.
As they left, defeated, I approached Arseny.
“Thank you.”
“I just repaid a debt. What’s next?”
“To live,” I answered, looking out the window at the vast, free world. “Just to live.”