She took care of him like a son. He just hoped that she would d/i/e/d.

Elena didn’t scream. He did not cry. She just sat still in bed, listening to Pavel’s every word, every sentence uttered as if it were a confession to an invisible accomplice. His body trembled, but not from fear. It was something else… a chilling calm, as if something inside her had died even before cancer devoured everything.

The next morning, Pavel acted as if nothing had happened. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, asked if she wanted tea. He even swept the hallway, something he never did. Elena watched him in silence, with a new expression: serene, wise… and dangerous.

The days passed. She became more introspective, organizing documents, signing papers, discreetly calling her lawyer. Katya came to see her and spent the afternoon with her, not knowing that this quiet conversation hid a plan.

“Auntie, are you sure?” He whispered, reading the will.

—More than ever. Everything must be in its place. And he, out of it.

When Pavel returned that night, Elena was waiting for him with dinner ready. Baked chicken, his favorite dish. He smiled, pleased.

“That’s how I like it,” he said as he helped himself. We have to take care of ourselves, right?

She just looked at him, with an expression she didn’t like.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just think you should enjoy every bite.

That same night, Pavel went to bed early. He was strangely tired. Elena stood in the living room, looking at an old photo of the two of them. She was smiling in the picture. So did he, though now he seemed like an empty grimace.

The next morning, Pavel woke up with unbearable discomfort. Nausea, sweating, weakness. Elena helped him to sit down.

“Do you want me to call a doctor?” He asked in a neutral tone.

“No… maybe just something I ate—” he stammered.

It was then that the doorbell rang. Two policemen were at the door. Pavel tried to get up, but fainted. The agents quickly entered.

“What… what’s going on? One asked when he saw Elena calm.

“Don’t worry. “I have proof,” she said, handing them a recording of the balcony and the new will, signed and notarized, where she gave up everything she shared with Pavel. “He tried to poison me months ago, before he knew my diagnosis. I couldn’t prove it… But now I can prove that I expected my death as an investment.

The medical report would later confirm that Pavel was not poisoned, he was only the victim of a mild tranquilizer mixed with cheap liquor. But the recording, the updated will, and the history of contempt would be enough for the judge to issue a restraining order and annulment of any rights to the estate.

Elena died two months later. Quits. In Katya’s arms, in a room full of light, without fear. And on the wall hung a plaque:
“This apartment was won with work, not feigned love.”