“Are you serious?” Vlad’s voice wavered, not from surprise but from the effort of holding back words he knew he’d regret. He perched on the edge of the sofa, staring blankly at the untouched sushi tray he and Christine had left uneaten. “You actually bought yourself a Porsche?”
“Not a Porsche. A Taycan. Electric. At least learn the name if you’re going to lecture me about it,” Christine replied without looking up from her phone. Her Instagram feed showed a colleague’s post from a conference in London—everyone in blazers, sipping champagne. Typical.
The flat smelled of wasabi, irritation, and the sterile tang of freshly scrubbed tiles—Christine had automatically wiped down the bathroom before Vlad arrived. As if it would make a difference.
“I just don’t get why you’d need a car like that,” Vlad burst out, pacing the kitchen. “You’re not a racer. You’re not a millionaire. Do you honestly think people will respect you more for driving that… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park in the back of beyond—just normal spots with charging points. Imagine, no more traffic jams because the Taycan has adaptive cruise. This isn’t about showing off, Vlad. It’s about comfort, safety, and—ta-da!—my money.”
“You heard what Dad said,” Vlad pressed, like he’d rehearsed the line all night.
“Unfortunately, my hearing’s still intact,” Christine finally put her phone down. “He said it’s ‘unseemly’ for a woman to own a car like that because it ‘stirs up unhealthy excitement among men.’ Direct quote, by the way.”
“He’s just worried. He’s old-school.”
“He’s fossil-school, Vlad. And you’re heading the same way if you don’t say something remotely supportive right now.”
Vlad opened his mouth, then closed it again. Like an old telly with audio but no picture.
“Why couldn’t you discuss it with me? We’re family. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested a Kia Ceed, like your mum’s? Or talked me out of it so you could get your granddad’s old estate?”
He gave a joyless smirk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Christine sighed, looking at him the way one eyes a wobbly stool—technically functional, but you’d rather not risk sitting.
“Vlad, have you ever felt like you could just… do what you want? Without worrying about opinions, expectations, tantrums?”
“I don’t earn what you do, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about freedom. Inside.”
He shrugged, as if the words gave him hives.
“You knew my parents weren’t like that. You knew what you were getting into.”
“I hoped they’d at least start respecting me. Or that you would.”
The silence thickened, denser than yesterday’s takeaway biryani. Vlad sat back down, shoulders slumped.
“They just think you should be more… feminine.”
“Ah. Preferably without opinions, a driving licence, and eternally grateful for a wedding ring?” Christine laughed bitterly. “Sorry, I’m not a sidekick to your life. I’m a person. With autonomy.”
He turned away. Then, absurdly, a knock—too firm for a courier, too quiet for a neighbour.
“It’s Mum,” Vlad exhaled, standing. “She wanted to drop by, see how we’re doing.”
“She just ‘happened’ to be nearby? Or does she have a tracker on my car now?” Christine arched a brow, smoothing her blouse as she stood.
“Just… be gentle, alright?”
“I’m gentler than shower gel. You’re the one who needs to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Ann Marie swept in with a Waitrose bag, looking less like a guest and more like an auditor.
“Hello, loves. Brought you a wholesome salad—no nitrates. You could use a health boost.” Her gaze flicked to Christine’s heels. “All dressed up? Off to a gala?”
“I’m always like this. Can’t afford to look like a pensioner on maternity leave.”
“Who exactly are you referring to?” Ann Marie’s smile tightened.
“An abstract concept. But if the shoe fits…”
“Vlad, are you going to let her speak to me like this?” Ann Marie turned to her son, ignoring Christine like an office printer on weekends.
“He’s not my supervisor. Or a translator from English to family-speak,” Christine said, grabbing the sushi tray. “Tea? Or shall we skip to discussing my ‘unseemly’ car?”
“You’ve got the right idea, dear,” Ann Marie beamed. “Your father and I need a car like that—for the country, visiting the cottage. What’s it for you? Vanity?”
“Mm. And revenge. On you.” Christine said it softly, calmly. Like a surgeon announcing complications.
A pause. Even Vlad seemed to grasp the weight of it. Christine set the sushi back.
“Sorry. I’m done pretending this is normal.”
“Pretending what’s normal?” Ann Marie blinked.
“All of it. You treating my home like a checkpoint. Vlad freezing like a memorial to his childhood. Being told how to live, dress, spend. I’m done.”
She kicked off her heels—armour discarded—and walked to the bedroom. Vlad stood gaping; Ann Marie turned to him, fury brewing.
“She humiliates me in front of you, and you just stand there sniffing your socks! This is no way to live!”
“It won’t be,” Christine called from the bedroom. Calm. Steel beneath.
Christine woke to a sound like an earthquake—or at least a lift shaft collapsing. The wardrobe shuddered, rattling the Victorian pipes. Vlad was rummaging for documents. Hers, of course. The car’s.
“Are you serious right now?” Her voice was hoarse, yesterday’s argument still clinging to her throat.
“Where’s the V5C?” Vlad didn’t turn. He wore those stretched-kneed joggers he reserved for router repairs and microwaving lentils.
“Same place as your backbone. Buried under layers of parental fear.” Christine strode past him, robe cinched tight. “Won’t find it. It’s with my solicitor. Surprise—the car’s in my name only. No transfer, no proxies. No Dad.”
“You can’t do this! We’re family!”
“And you can rifle through my drawers because you’ve got masculinity issues and Mummy’s advice itching in your ear?”
He straightened, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time. For a second, she almost pitied him. Almost.
“Dad said you’re acting like… like a feminist.”
“How dreadful!” Christine clutched her chest in mock horror. “Did he faint? Or was smelling salts enough?”
“They’re just concerned. They want stability. Respect. For you to be a proper wife!”
“Proper? Meaning what? Darning socks? Serving roast dinners on cue? Vlad, I’ve got a job, business trips, people relying on me. I’m not a debutante—I run European logistics.”
“I don’t care! I want you home, with me! Not globetrotting, buying tanks!”
“Not a tank. A ship. And I’m the captain. You? No helm access.” She glanced out the window, where her silver Taycan glinted, outshining every Ford Focus on the street.
He stepped closer. Jaw set, eyes dark.
“You think you’re better than us? You looked down on my parents, on me! But you married into this family.”
“Right. And your ‘family’ is a never-ending quest with deadlines and shouting. I’m an add-on. Not even a name—just ‘the wife,’ ‘the one with the car.’”
He grabbed her wrist. Hard. Not a lover’s grip—a cornered man’s.
“Vlad. Let go.” Ice in her voice. Air traffic control declaring an emergency.
“We’re going to my parents. Today. To talk. Properly. As a family.”
“First, you let go. Then, you leave. After that… if I’m feeling generous, I might text you. Or not.”
He released her like she’d burned him. Stepped back.
“You’re insane. You’re ruining everything!”
“Everything?” She scoffed. “Two years, Vlad. One good, one under your mother’s surveillance. You think I don’t see your hallway whispers? Her ‘how to tame a shrew’ lectures?”
“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?!”
“A person. Choosing my own life. And you?”
He grabbed his jacket and keys. At the door, he turned:
“You’re just selfish.”
“And you’re just a son. A little boy, really.”
The door slammed. Silence rang in its wake.
That evening, a text from Ann Marie:
*”I always knew you weren’t right for Vlad.She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and drove away without looking back—knowing, for the first time in years, exactly where she was going.
