“EITHER YOU TRANSFER THE BUSINESS AND THE DACHA TO MY MOTHER, OR THERE WILL BE NO WEDDING!”
Veranne poured herself a cup of coffee and walked over to the window. Dawn was barely breaking, yet her mind was already racing through the day’s agenda—a meeting with a supplier, a review of accounting reports, and an important call with a client from Tver. Her schedule was precise—every minute accounted for. That sense of order comforted her.
The small printing house that Veranne had inherited from her father, Pollan Dimitt, five years ago demanded constant attention. “Business is like a child,” her father had always said. “Turn your back for a moment, and it either makes a mess or falls ill.” Pollan Dimitt had been old-school—strict and principled. He worked as long as necessary, never pushed his responsibilities onto others, and always kept his word.
“Remember the three keys to success, Veranne,” he would repeat: keep your word, distrust manipulators, and respect hard work—your own and others’.” Even the dacha outside Moscow, nestled quietly on the shore of a small lake, was treated not as a place of relaxation but as another responsibility. Pollan Dimitt planned every detail—from which crops to plant each spring to how best to tend the garden.
When Pollan Dimitt suddenly passed away from a heart @ttack, both the business and the dacha became Veranne’s sole responsibility. Many doubted that a young woman could handle it all. But in five years, the printing house not only survived—it grew. And the dacha became a serene retreat, where she could recharge in solitude.
Her phone rang—Antony.
“Good morning! Already awake, workaholic?” His voice was bright and cheerful.
“Long ago,” Veranne smiled. “I’m finishing my coffee.”
“What time do you finish today? Maybe we can meet after work?”
Veranne checked her planner.
“Around six. Then I need to stop by the restaurant to finalize the wedding menu.”
“Oh, this wedding,” Antony sighed, weariness creeping into his voice. “Sometimes I think it would be easier to just sign the papers and fly off to an island somewhere.”
“Come on, only two weeks left,” Veranne chuckled. “I’ve taken care of everything—you don’t have to worry.”
“Exactly! You’ve handled it all, my efficient girl.”
Antony was the complete opposite of the serious, responsible men Veranne had dated before. He was spontaneous, full of humor, always ready for a trip or a party. They had met at the gym—Veranne attended Pilates, while Antony trained in CrossFit.
They first struck up a conversation in the fitness-center café, exchanged numbers, and within a week, they went out for dinner. Antony never needed long to charm a woman—confident and silver-tongued, he had a way of making his companion feel special.
Veranne told him about her business, and Antony listened with interest, asked questions, and praised her entrepreneurial streak. He worked for a consulting company, frequently traveling to meet clients.
“You know what amazes me about you?” Antony said on one of their first dates. “You’re… dependable. Not like those modern girls who only think about marrying rich. You have your own business, your own income.”
Veranne took those words as a compliment, appreciating her drive and hard work. Her father had always told her that a real man would value those qualities over doll-like appearances and fluttering eyelashes.
The proposal came six months later—one of the city’s finest restaurants, champagne, and a sapphire ring in a velvet box.
“I’ve met the woman of my dreams,” Antony said, looking into her eyes. “Will you be my wife?”
Though her father had taught her not to rush important decisions, Veranne accepted almost immediately. Antony seemed the perfect life partner—attentive, caring, financially stable, and someone with whom she shared common interests.
Soon after the engagement, Veranne met Antony’s mother, Irene Klark, a fit and impeccably groomed woman in her mid-fifties. Over lunch, Irene studied Veranne, asking about her work, plans, and views on family life.
“My dear girl,” Irene smiled, “the main thing in a family is to hold on to your man. My Antony has a strong character, but if you give in on little things, you’ll live in perfect harmony.”
Veranne nodded, though something about that perspective didn’t sit well with her. Her father had taught her independence, not dependence on others’ opinions. But for the sake of good relations, she didn’t argue.
Another time, while they were picking out tableware for the new home, Irene remarked casually, “You know, family means everything is shared—sorrow and joy, property too. In our family, it’s always been that way: the women brought everything they had into the home and laid it at the husband’s feet. They never regretted it, because they gained protection and support.”
At the time, Veranne hadn’t given much thought to those words. She cared more about their future together than past family customs.
Wedding preparations fell entirely on her shoulders. Antony was constantly busy with meetings, reports, and calls. She booked the venue—a panoramic hall on the riverbank—negotiated the menu, found a decorator, met the emcee, and picked musicians. Even the guest list was drafted by her, though she cleared it with Antony.
“Listen, why did you invite Shaun and Annella?” Antony asked, scrolling through the list. “We haven’t spoken in ages.”
“But you told me you studied together and that he was an old friend,” Veranne said, puzzled.
“Well, yes, but… fine, keep them,” Antony waved it off and returned to his phone.
Oddly, when it came to paying for the wedding, Antony seemed indifferent.
“Whatever it costs, we’ll spend it,” he said. “You only get married once.”
That surprised Veranne. Antony had been frugal in other matters, but she was relieved that they weren’t cu:tting corners.
Two days before the wedding, Antony unexpectedly suggested they meet at a café.
“There’s something we need to discuss,” he said cryptically, “a family council.”
Veranne assumed it was about a surprise for the guests. But when she arrived, Antony wasn’t alone—Irene Klark was sitting beside him.
“Verotchka, dear,” Irene began once Veranne had settled in. “Antony and I talked and came up with an idea… for the good of the family.”
Veranne glanced at her fiancé, confused. His expression was tense, as if bracing for an unpleasant conversation.
“You see,” Irene continued, “divorces are so common nowadays, and we want your marriage to be strong.”
“And?” Veranne started to feel uneasy.
“And we think,” Antony added, “that it would be wise to secure ourselves. You know, just in case things ever go wrong.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Veranne asked, puzzled…
SEE THE CONTINUATION IN THE COMMENTS BELOW!
Veranne poured herself a cup of coffee and walked over to the window. Dawn was barely breaking, yet her mind was already racing through the day’s agenda—a meeting with a supplier, a review of accounting reports, and an important call with a client from Tver. Her schedule was precise—every minute accounted for. That sense of order comforted her.
The small printing house that Veranne had inherited from her father, Pollan Dimitt, five years ago demanded constant attention. “Business is like a child,” her father had always said. “Turn your back for a moment, and it either makes a mess or falls ill.” Pollan Dimitt had been old-school—strict and principled. He worked as long as necessary, never pushed his responsibilities onto others, and always kept his word.
“Remember the three keys to success, Veranne,” he would repeat: keep your word, distrust manipulators, and respect hard work—your own and others’.” Even the dacha outside Moscow, nestled quietly on the shore of a small lake, was treated not as a place of relaxation but as another responsibility. Pollan Dimitt planned every detail—from which crops to plant each spring to how best to tend the garden.
When Pollan Dimitt suddenly passed away from a heart @ttack, both the business and the dacha became Veranne’s sole responsibility. Many doubted that a young woman could handle it all. But in five years, the printing house not only survived—it grew. And the dacha became a serene retreat, where she could recharge in solitude.
Her phone rang—Antony.
“Good morning! Already awake, workaholic?” His voice was bright and cheerful.
“Long ago,” Veranne smiled. “I’m finishing my coffee.”
“What time do you finish today? Maybe we can meet after work?”
Veranne checked her planner.
“Around six. Then I need to stop by the restaurant to finalize the wedding menu.”
“Oh, this wedding,” Antony sighed, weariness creeping into his voice. “Sometimes I think it would be easier to just sign the papers and fly off to an island somewhere.”
“Come on, only two weeks left,” Veranne chuckled. “I’ve taken care of everything—you don’t have to worry.”
“Exactly! You’ve handled it all, my efficient girl.”
Antony was the complete opposite of the serious, responsible men Veranne had dated before. He was spontaneous, full of humor, always ready for a trip or a party. They had met at the gym—Veranne attended Pilates, while Antony trained in CrossFit.
They first struck up a conversation in the fitness-center café, exchanged numbers, and within a week, they went out for dinner. Antony never needed long to charm a woman—confident and silver-tongued, he had a way of making his companion feel special.
Veranne told him about her business, and Antony listened with interest, asked questions, and praised her entrepreneurial streak. He worked for a consulting company, frequently traveling to meet clients.
“You know what amazes me about you?” Antony said on one of their first dates. “You’re… dependable. Not like those modern girls who only think about marrying rich. You have your own business, your own income.”
Veranne took those words as a compliment, appreciating her drive and hard work. Her father had always told her that a real man would value those qualities over doll-like appearances and fluttering eyelashes.
The proposal came six months later—one of the city’s finest restaurants, champagne, and a sapphire ring in a velvet box.
“I’ve met the woman of my dreams,” Antony said, looking into her eyes. “Will you be my wife?”
Though her father had taught her not to rush important decisions, Veranne accepted almost immediately. Antony seemed the perfect life partner—attentive, caring, financially stable, and someone with whom she shared common interests.
Soon after the engagement, Veranne met Antony’s mother, Irene Klark, a fit and impeccably groomed woman in her mid-fifties. Over lunch, Irene studied Veranne, asking about her work, plans, and views on family life.
“My dear girl,” Irene smiled, “the main thing in a family is to hold on to your man. My Antony has a strong character, but if you give in on little things, you’ll live in perfect harmony.”
Veranne nodded, though something about that perspective didn’t sit well with her. Her father had taught her independence, not dependence on others’ opinions. But for the sake of good relations, she didn’t argue.
Another time, while they were picking out tableware for the new home, Irene remarked casually, “You know, family means everything is shared—sorrow and joy, property too. In our family, it’s always been that way: the women brought everything they had into the home and laid it at the husband’s feet. They never regretted it, because they gained protection and support.”
At the time, Veranne hadn’t given much thought to those words. She cared more about their future together than past family customs.
Wedding preparations fell entirely on her shoulders. Antony was constantly busy with meetings, reports, and calls. She booked the venue—a panoramic hall on the riverbank—negotiated the menu, found a decorator, met the emcee, and picked musicians. Even the guest list was drafted by her, though she cleared it with Antony.
“Listen, why did you invite Shaun and Annella?” Antony asked, scrolling through the list. “We haven’t spoken in ages.”
“But you told me you studied together and that he was an old friend,” Veranne said, puzzled.
“Well, yes, but… fine, keep them,” Antony waved it off and returned to his phone.
Oddly, when it came to paying for the wedding, Antony seemed indifferent.
“Whatever it costs, we’ll spend it,” he said. “You only get married once.”
That surprised Veranne. Antony had been frugal in other matters, but she was relieved that they weren’t cu:tting corners.
Two days before the wedding, Antony unexpectedly suggested they meet at a café.
“There’s something we need to discuss,” he said cryptically, “a family council.”
Veranne assumed it was about a surprise for the guests. But when she arrived, Antony wasn’t alone—Irene Klark was sitting beside him.
“Verotchka, dear,” Irene began once Veranne had settled in. “Antony and I talked and came up with an idea… for the good of the family.”
Veranne glanced at her fiancé, confused. His expression was tense, as if bracing for an unpleasant conversation.
“You see,” Irene continued, “divorces are so common nowadays, and we want your marriage to be strong.”
“And?” Veranne started to feel uneasy.
“And we think,” Antony added, “that it would be wise to secure ourselves. You know, just in case things ever go wrong.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Veranne asked, puzzled…
SEE THE CONTINUATION IN THE COMMENTS BELOW!
“EITHER YOU TRANSFER THE BUSINESS AND THE DACHA TO MY MOTHER, OR THERE WILL BE NO WEDDING!”
Veranne poured herself a cup of coffee and walked over to the window. Dawn was barely breaking, yet her mind was already racing through the day’s agenda—a meeting with a supplier, a review of accounting reports, and an important call with a client from Tver. Her schedule was precise—every minute accounted for. That sense of order comforted her.
The small printing house that Veranne had inherited from her father, Pollan Dimitt, five years ago demanded constant attention. “Business is like a child,” her father had always said. “Turn your back for a moment, and it either makes a mess or falls ill.” Pollan Dimitt had been old-school—strict and principled. He worked as long as necessary, never pushed his responsibilities onto others, and always kept his word.
“Remember the three keys to success, Veranne,” he would repeat: keep your word, distrust manipulators, and respect hard work—your own and others’.” Even the dacha outside Moscow, nestled quietly on the shore of a small lake, was treated not as a place of relaxation but as another responsibility. Pollan Dimitt planned every detail—from which crops to plant each spring to how best to tend the garden.
When Pollan Dimitt suddenly passed away from a heart @ttack, both the business and the dacha became Veranne’s sole responsibility. Many doubted that a young woman could handle it all. But in five years, the printing house not only survived—it grew. And the dacha became a serene retreat, where she could recharge in solitude.
Her phone rang—Antony.
“Good morning! Already awake, workaholic?” His voice was bright and cheerful.
“Long ago,” Veranne smiled. “I’m finishing my coffee.”
“What time do you finish today? Maybe we can meet after work?”
Veranne checked her planner.
“Around six. Then I need to stop by the restaurant to finalize the wedding menu.”
“Oh, this wedding,” Antony sighed, weariness creeping into his voice. “Sometimes I think it would be easier to just sign the papers and fly off to an island somewhere.”
“Come on, only two weeks left,” Veranne chuckled. “I’ve taken care of everything—you don’t have to worry.”
“Exactly! You’ve handled it all, my efficient girl.”
Antony was the complete opposite of the serious, responsible men Veranne had dated before. He was spontaneous, full of humor, always ready for a trip or a party. They had met at the gym—Veranne attended Pilates, while Antony trained in CrossFit.
They first struck up a conversation in the fitness-center café, exchanged numbers, and within a week, they went out for dinner. Antony never needed long to charm a woman—confident and silver-tongued, he had a way of making his companion feel special.
Veranne told him about her business, and Antony listened with interest, asked questions, and praised her entrepreneurial streak. He worked for a consulting company, frequently traveling to meet clients.
“You know what amazes me about you?” Antony said on one of their first dates. “You’re… dependable. Not like those modern girls who only think about marrying rich. You have your own business, your own income.”
Veranne took those words as a compliment, appreciating her drive and hard work. Her father had always told her that a real man would value those qualities over doll-like appearances and fluttering eyelashes.
The proposal came six months later—one of the city’s finest restaurants, champagne, and a sapphire ring in a velvet box.
“I’ve met the woman of my dreams,” Antony said, looking into her eyes. “Will you be my wife?”
Though her father had taught her not to rush important decisions, Veranne accepted almost immediately. Antony seemed the perfect life partner—attentive, caring, financially stable, and someone with whom she shared common interests.
Soon after the engagement, Veranne met Antony’s mother, Irene Klark, a fit and impeccably groomed woman in her mid-fifties. Over lunch, Irene studied Veranne, asking about her work, plans, and views on family life.
“My dear girl,” Irene smiled, “the main thing in a family is to hold on to your man. My Antony has a strong character, but if you give in on little things, you’ll live in perfect harmony.”
Veranne nodded, though something about that perspective didn’t sit well with her. Her father had taught her independence, not dependence on others’ opinions. But for the sake of good relations, she didn’t argue.
Another time, while they were picking out tableware for the new home, Irene remarked casually, “You know, family means everything is shared—sorrow and joy, property too. In our family, it’s always been that way: the women brought everything they had into the home and laid it at the husband’s feet. They never regretted it, because they gained protection and support.”
At the time, Veranne hadn’t given much thought to those words. She cared more about their future together than past family customs.
Wedding preparations fell entirely on her shoulders. Antony was constantly busy with meetings, reports, and calls. She booked the venue—a panoramic hall on the riverbank—negotiated the menu, found a decorator, met the emcee, and picked musicians. Even the guest list was drafted by her, though she cleared it with Antony.
“Listen, why did you invite Shaun and Annella?” Antony asked, scrolling through the list. “We haven’t spoken in ages.”
“But you told me you studied together and that he was an old friend,” Veranne said, puzzled.
“Well, yes, but… fine, keep them,” Antony waved it off and returned to his phone.
Oddly, when it came to paying for the wedding, Antony seemed indifferent.
“Whatever it costs, we’ll spend it,” he said. “You only get married once.”
That surprised Veranne. Antony had been frugal in other matters, but she was relieved that they weren’t cu:tting corners.
Two days before the wedding, Antony unexpectedly suggested they meet at a café.
“There’s something we need to discuss,” he said cryptically, “a family council.”
Veranne assumed it was about a surprise for the guests. But when she arrived, Antony wasn’t alone—Irene Klark was sitting beside him.
“Verotchka, dear,” Irene began once Veranne had settled in. “Antony and I talked and came up with an idea… for the good of the family.”
Veranne glanced at her fiancé, confused. His expression was tense, as if bracing for an unpleasant conversation.
“You see,” Irene continued, “divorces are so common nowadays, and we want your marriage to be strong.”
“And?” Veranne started to feel uneasy.
“And we think,” Antony added, “that it would be wise to secure ourselves. You know, just in case things ever go wrong.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Veranne asked, puzzled…
SEE THE CONTINUATION IN THE COMMENTS BELOW! 👇👇👇
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