“Do you seriously expect me to sign a prenup that leaves me with nothing? That’s not going to happen!” Anna declared to her fiancé and his mother.

Anna picked up the document. Her fingers trembled slightly, though she did not yet understand why. Her eyes moved across the first few lines, and a chill spread through her.

According to the agreement, if they  divorced, her apartment—the one she had purchased long before she ever met Maxim—would become her husband’s property.

The official wording described it as “compensation for emotional distress.”

Anna slowly lifted her gaze toward her fiancé. She expected outrage. Or at least discomfort. Even the faintest trace of embarrassment.

But Maxim sat leaning back in his chair, casually turning a fork between his fingers.

“It’s just a formality,” he said with a shrug. “Why are you getting so worked up?Tamara Ilyinichna nodded approvingly and poured herself more  tea. Her thin lips curved into a satisfied half-smile—the kind worn by someone who is already certain of the outcome

Anna closed the folder.

Her hands were no longer shaking.

They had met at a corporate training event, a three-day project management course held at a countryside hotel with terrible coffee and chairs that creaked whenever anyone moved.

Maxim had been sitting two rows behind her. During the first break, he approached her carrying a paper cup.

“Do you also think the instructor looks like a high school physics teacher?” he asked.

Anna laughed because she had been thinking exactly the same thing.

After that came long walks, quiet dinners, and conversations that lasted late into the night.

Maxim seemed like a reliable, uncomplicated man—the kind who arrived on time, remembered to call back, and did not punish people with silence after an argument.

“Being with you is easy,” he used to tell her. “You’re not like other women. You’re real.”

A year later, he proposed.

Anna sincerely believed that she had finally found someone with whom she could build something mature, stable, and genuine.