Dmitry looked at me in surprise.
“I won’t take you there; there will be decent people, not of your standing,” he declared, unaware that I was the owner of the company where I worked. “You understand, this is a serious matter. There will be people who decide my fate in the company. I can’t afford to look… well, you know.”
“Not exactly.”
“Anyechka,” he tried to soften his tone, “you’re a wonderful wife, but you lower my social status. Next to you, I look poorer than I am. These people must see me as their equal.”
His words stung, but not as much as before. Now I knew my worth. And I knew his.
“Fine,” I said calmly. “Have fun.”
This morning, Dmitry left work in a very good mood. I put on a new Dior dress: dark blue, elegant, that flattered my figure but maintained a restrained style. I did my makeup and hair professionally. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a completely different person. Self-confident, beautiful, successful.
I knew the restaurant where the event was being held: one of the best in the city. Mikhail Petrovich greeted me at the entrance.
Anna Sergeevna, I’m glad to see you. You look wonderful.
