Dmitry sank into the armchair as if he felt weakened.
“You… you can’t…” he muttered.
“If you’re lucky,” I said, “you could negotiate compensation. The apartment and the car should cover it.”
“Idiot!” he burst out again. “Where will we live then? You won’t have anywhere to live either!”
I looked at him with pity. Even now, in this situation, he only thought about himself.
“I have an apartment downtown,” I said quietly. “Two hundred square meters. And a house in the Moscow region. My personal chauffeur is already waiting for me downstairs.”
Dmitry looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language.
“What?” he exhaled.
I turned around. He was standing in the middle of the room: confused, broken, pathetic. The same man who that morning had considered me unworthy of being with him among decent people.
“You know, Dima,” I said, “you were right. We really are on different levels. Just not the way you thought.”
