Finally, I’ve run far enough that no one will find me or drag me back to that house, to that harsh and dangerous man who refuses to let me go. And I’ve escaped from that smooth-talking charmer too, the one who bet big money that I’d lose my virginity to him. Am I some kind of runaway fairy-tale character?
It’s pretty weird in this day and age to be running from a legal husband instead of just filing for divorce and splitting the hefty family fortune, even if it means a messy court battle. Even weirder was our marriage on the day I turned eighteen, and weirder still was my grandfather’s will, which ordered me to marry his younger business partner for my own safety and to secure my rights to the family wealth.
Divorce was only allowed after I enrolled in college and completed at least a year of training in the family business under this partner’s guidance—a partner who, once the younger one, had now become the senior and only one in charge.
But here’s the kicker: on my eighteenth birthday, this one-of-a-kind guy demanded that the divorce waiting period be extended to ten years. Nothing personal, just business, he said. No time to split things up now. But in ten years…
People get shorter sentences for murder! How do I know? I was planning to study law.
And guess what? They sent me to a completely different program instead.
That’s where I met my first—and maybe last—love. I lost my head, first to romance, and then, more recently, to the shocking discovery of a bet on my virginity.
And now, I’ve lost any hope of claiming my grandfather’s inheritance.
But this soap-opera drama all unfolded back in my hometown of Kyiv—from the very start, when my whole family was in a car accident. Only my grandfather, that younger partner, and I survived. My parents and the partner’s wife didn’t make it. I hope the drama ended in Kyiv. I mean, I hope there’s no sequel.
I fled from there to here, and now I’m finally soaking in the view, the sound of the waves, and playing a harmless little game of checkers with myself.
What’s the game?
Whoever finds me first gets to have me. And if no one finds me, I’ll be a free bird.
In my backpack, I’ve got the essentials.
A laptop, a few bank cards under a new last name, some cash, and a pair of warm socks. About the socks—it’s a promise I made to my grandfather. Always have a spare pair of wool socks ready. That was his direct, no-nonsense order, his last words to me.
If Grandpa only knew how much they itch, he wouldn’t have asked so much of me.
The laptop’s battery will hold out for a bit longer. Internet’s paid up through the end of the month with a new provider, three phones with two SIM cards just in case, and six spare SIMs.
That’s where the money’s going.
Well, since there’s nothing else to do right now, I’ll set up a new account.
Who am I now?
Typing in the new last name—it’s more convenient this way. The one tied to a couple of small bank accounts.
Poor little orphan me. I scrimped and saved on everything, whether I should have or not.
And I saved enough to change my name, stash a little emergency cash in the bank, and keep a tiny bit of cash on hand. Not much, though, because I was too scared to hitchhike. Yeah, I’m a sheltered flower. I’m wary of strangers, and I probably look exactly like a victim. Maybe I act like one too. Or maybe not, but I’m not about to test that theory.
Victims run and hide. I’m running and hiding. What more proof do you need that I shouldn’t take any more risks?
Overall, I’ve stuck to my budget. I’ve got about fifteen hundred left. Enough for ice cream, and we’ll see about anything more.
I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about money and what it can cover. It’s a habit that’s dug deep over the years since Grandpa’s funeral. And I’m just a girl. At nineteen, I don’t want to be obsessing over cash. I want to love and be loved, to buy a cute new dress, wear it to a party, and just live it up. And maybe think about other stuff during these golden teenage years. How would I know what that’s like?
My experience is different, and so are my thoughts.
I’m not too worried, though. People have often told me that women only think about money and what they can gain. So I guess I’m normal after all.
My husband isn’t stingy, don’t get me wrong. And he’s got plenty of money. His money, not ours—that’s an important distinction.
He always gave me a decent allowance for personal expenses. And he never kept track of what I spent it on.
Ripped jeans? That’s just the style. A sweater sitting in the closet for over a week? Hey, good job, sweetheart, you’ve got a perfect sense of style, congrats on the new piece. No need to buy underwear. Instead of panties, use disposable liners. And as for a bra, there’s nothing much to put it on—just dab some antiseptic on it, it’ll heal on its own. That’s what my legal-but-fake husband said, with his signature tact and subtle humor. Ha ha, I even clapped for him that time.
That’s how I saved most of my money. You can also ask for cash for new makeup, perfume, and coffee dates with friends.
He doesn’t know I don’t have any friends.
And going to fancy cafés just to order a coffee and a pastry with money that could buy real food for a whole day? Let the poor country girls do that. For them, it’s a cultural outing, a taste of big-city life.
For me, it’s a breath of fresh air for the journey ahead.
Maybe these two macho men won’t catch me, but I’m not holding out much hope.
One of them has connections everywhere, a team of bodyguards skilled in tracking, security, sniper shooting, and who knows, maybe even espionage.
Or maybe my legal husband doesn’t have spies. Even my classmates started suspecting something by the second semester, but he didn’t.
The other one has a stubborn streak and an uncanny knowledge of all my fears and dreams. Yeah, I messed up there, I’ll admit it. You can’t show your weak spots to anyone, even when you’re head over heels in love.
But a lovesick freshman girl is a whole different species. A bag of hormones, a drop of brainpower—and even that’s only on days when classes aren’t a blur and you can actually notice anything beyond that one guy. The most handsome, the smartest, the most… everything, straight out of the pinkest, silliest girly dreams.
But I’ve learned my lesson for life now. I’m like that runaway character from the fairy tale—I’ve escaped my legal husband, I’ve escaped the other guy. I just hope I don’t run into a fox.