Toxic friend

Toxic friend

Kristin Evans

© Kristin Evans, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-0422-7

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

KRISTIN EVANS

TOXIC FRIEND

Chapter 1: The Perfect Facade

The morning sun flooded the cozy hall of the “Julien” restaurant with a soft, amber light. Its rays danced in the crystal glasses, gleamed on the silverware, and cast warm pools on the crisp white tablecloths. The air was rich with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, buttery croissants, and the hyacinths blooming in planters by the huge panoramic windows. In this place, time seemed to slow down, and the problems of the big city felt distant and insignificant.

Marina had arrived first. She’d chosen a corner table with a view of a small, bustling square. Her fingers nervously fiddled with a napkin, and her gaze drifted over the familiar interior without settling on anything. Despite the idyllic scene, a faint anxiety stirred within her. Meetings with Lilia were always a rollercoaster – you never knew which way the next twist would throw you. But today, she told herself, would be different. Today was just a pleasant Sunday brunch with her best friend.

She caught the admiring glance of a man at a nearby table and shyly looked away. Marina didn’t consider herself a beauty, but her charm lay in her modesty. She had warm, gentle brown eyes, framed by long lashes she rarely enhanced with mascara, delicate features, and thick chestnut hair styled in a casually elegant updo. She was dressed in a simple cream-colored blouse and dark jeans, while most of the women at “Julien” flaunted designer dresses. She felt a little out of place here, but it was one of Lilia’s favorite spots.

“Marinochka! Darling! Sorry to keep you waiting, those idiots in the parking lot caused a traffic jam over some pathetic Ferrari!”

A voice, ringing like a bell, shattered the calm atmosphere. Everyone turned. Lilia had burst into the room. She wasn’t just a woman; she was an event. Her entrance was pure theater. A long dress the color of ripe raspberry hugged her perfect figure, a wide-brimmed hat and huge sunglasses hid half her face, and a light, flowing cape completed the look. She removed her glasses, and her bright blue eyes, expertly lined with winged eyeliner, swept over the room with an appraising, commanding gaze, as if checking that everyone had properly appreciated her grand entrance.

She swept over to the table, embraced Marina, enveloping her in a cloud of expensive, sensual perfume with notes of sandalwood and jasmine, and gracefully sank into a chair.

“You look wonderful,” Marina said, and it was the pure truth. Lilia always looked impeccable, as if she’d just stepped off the pages of a glossy magazine.

“I get three hours of sleep, survive on a diet of sorrow and angst, and you say I look wonderful,” Lilia sighed with feigned sadness, but it was clear the compliment pleased her. “And you, I see, decided not to bother. Your favorite ‘Miss Modesty’ style again. Although,” she squinted, studying Marina, “it’s… cute on you. Very authentic.”

Marina felt a familiar pang somewhere in the pit of her stomach. A compliment? Or a jab? With Lilia, it was always hard to tell. She had learned to let it go in one ear and out the other.

“How’s your project?” Marina asked, changing the subject. “Last time you were telling me about the shoot for the new catalog.”

Lilia perked up. Talking about herself was her favorite activity.

“God, Marin, it was a nightmare!” She took a sip from the glass of water a waiter had instantly provided. “The photographer is a complete hack, couldn’t find a good angle. The models are stiff as boards. The lighting is atrocious. I literally had to take over and direct the whole process, or they would have ruined everything. In the end, only my shots were usable. They’re already calling me the ‘savior of the project.’ I’m so tired of carrying all these losers, honestly.”

She spoke quickly, passionately, waving her hands. Her bracelets jingled. Marina listened, nodding. The story was typical: a complete failure by everyone else and a triumphant rescue by the brilliant Lilia. Marina had long stopped asking follow-up questions or expressing doubt. It only caused irritation.

“And how are you?” Lilia finally asked, breaking off a tiny piece of a croissant. “How are your… interiors? Found anyone yet willing to bring your little sketches to life?”

“I’m doing well,” Marina smiled, trying to ignore the slight condescension in her friend’s tone. “I’m actually working on an interesting commission right now. A private house in the suburbs. Very ambitious clients.”

“Oh, how sweet!” Lilia said, and her voice held genuine condescension, the kind usually reserved for a child’s hobby. “Drawing your pretty little tables and sofas. I know it’s so calming for you. It’s like art therapy for you.”

Marina picked up her coffee cup. The bitterness she tasted didn’t come from the drink.

“Yes, it’s true. I enjoy my work.”

“And you should!” Lilia suddenly placed her hand on top of Marina’s. Her touch was warm but commanding. “The main thing is to find a nice, quiet hobby so you don’t have to worry about the big stuff. Not everyone is built to carry the weight of responsibility like I am. You’re such a good girl.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Marina watched as Lilia answered messages on her phone, her long, perfect nails tapping on the screen. She was the living embodiment of success and style, and next to her, Marina always felt a little faded, a little unworthy of such a dazzling creature. That’s why she had endured these barbs, this condescension, for years. After all, Lilia could have chosen anyone to be her friend, and she had chosen her. It was an honor and… exhausting.

Suddenly, Lilia’s phone vibrated, playing an insistent, jarring ringtone. She looked at the screen, and her face changed instantly. All the charm, all the theatricality, fell away like a mask. All that remained was a cold, focused, and somehow… angry expression. Her fingers clenched the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“I have to take this,” her voice became quiet and flat, devoid of its former playfulness. “Business. Wait here.”

She stood up and strode quickly towards the exit without looking around. Her flowing cape flashed in the doorway and disappeared.

Marina was left sitting alone. She slowly exhaled, not even realizing she’d been holding her breath. The silence that followed Lilia’s departure was deafening. The anxiety she’d felt before her friend arrived returned, but now it was sharper, more tangible.

She watched Lilia through the window. She was standing on the square, her back to the restaurant, gesticulating. She was talking about something passionately, furiously. Her face, which Marina could see reflected in a storefront window, was distorted by a grimace of anger and contempt. It was a completely different face. Not the face of a friend, not the face of a successful socialite. It was the face of a stranger, hard and ruthless.

A few minutes later, Lilia ended the call. She stood still for a few seconds, staring at the phone. Then her shoulders straightened, she took a deep breath, ran a hand through her hair, and adjusted her dress. And when she turned to come back inside, that same dazzling, captivating smile was back on her face. Marina blinked, wondering if she had imagined it all. A trick of the light, her own imagination…

“Well, sorry, darling!” Lilia sang out, retaking her seat. “Those useless agents can’t take a single step without me. My whole morning is ruined. But enough about work!” She pushed the phone away as if pushing away everything unpleasant. “You won’t believe what I saw yesterday! And, more importantly, who with!”

And she launched into a captivating story about a high-society party, about celebrities, scandals, and intrigues. She laughed, joked, her eyes sparkling again. Marina listened, nodded, smiled. But her attention was no longer fully there.

She looked at her friend and saw not just her. She saw that other woman – with cold eyes and a mouth twisted in rage – who had been talking on the phone on the square. Two Lilias. The bright, sunny one sitting opposite her, and the shadowy, unfamiliar one who had briefly broken free.

An exhausting feeling, a familiar fatigue, washed over Marina with renewed force. She felt like an actress in a play that had long grown tedious but from which she couldn’t exit. She was playing the role of the best friend, the role of the admiring listener, the role of quiet, calm Marina, who was the perfect backdrop for the dazzling Lilia.

And deep inside, very quietly, almost inaudibly, a tiny, barely perceptible question arose: “But who am I, really? And how much longer can I endure this?”

But this question frightened her even more than the sudden change in her friend’s face. So she just took a sip of her now-cold coffee, forced a wider smile, and said:

“Really? And what did he say?”

The sun continued to shine, the restaurant patrons laughed and talked, and the shadow of the stranger slowly retreated into a corner of her mind, waiting for its hour.

Chapter 2: The First Scratch

The office of the “Modern” architectural firm resembled an anthill frozen in anticipation of a storm. The air was thick with tension, mixed with the smell of freshly printed blueprints, expensive coffee from the machine, and the faint scent of wood from a nearby model. Sunbeams streamed through the panoramic glass walls, illuminating dust particles floating in the air, making them look like miniature stardust. But today, no one was admiring the play of light.

Today was the day of the presentation for the “Sparrow Hills Residence” project.

For Marina, this project wasn’t just another job. It was her blood, her sleepless nights, her soul transferred onto drafting paper and into 3D models. For the last three months, she had lived and breathed this house. She knew its future inhabitants – the Lazarev family – their habits, their dreams, even how their youngest daughter loved to read on the floor, leaning against a warm wall. Marina had woven all of this into the design, creating not just a set of rooms, but a living space filled with light, air, and a quiet, peaceful harmony.

She stood in her glass-walled cubicle, running through the key points of the presentation in her head one last time. On the table before her lay a folder with the final sketches, printed on heavy matte paper. Every stroke, every color choice, every lighting decision had been meticulously planned. Next to it, the screen of her laptop glowed with a running 3D model, ready for demonstration.

Excitement coiled inside her like a tight, cold spring. But it was the good kind. Anticipation. The very moment she had become a designer for. The chance to show the fruit of her labor, her vision, and to see understanding and delight in the client’s eyes.

“Marina, are you ready?” Artem, her direct supervisor, appeared in the doorway. His usually mocking gaze was serious. “The Lazarevs are already in the conference room. The boss is with them. Looks like a big deal. Don’t screw up.”

“I’m ready,” she said firmly, though her fingers trembled slightly. She gathered the folders, checked that the flash drive with the presentation was in her pocket, and took a deep breath. Now, the main thing was to focus. To clear her mind of everything else.

It was at that exact moment that her personal phone, lying silently on the table, shook with an insistent vibration. The screen lit up with a name: “Lilia.”

Marina frowned. She had specifically warned her friend that she had a critically important meeting this morning. Lilia had seemed to understand and had even wished her luck in her usual slightly condescending tone: “Good luck, sweetie! Don’t stress so much over your little sofas.”

The phone fell silent, and a second later, it erupted in a silent, hysterical fit again. “Lilia.” Again.

Then a message came through. Marina glanced mechanically at the screen.

“Marin, sorry for calling. I have an emergency. Super urgent. Call me back, please, I have no one else to turn to.”

A cold dread slithered down her spine. An “emergency” for Lilia could mean anything from a broken heel to a real catastrophe. But the phrase “no one else to turn to” was her signature move. It was how she always guaranteed an instant reaction.

Marina placed the phone face down. No. Not now. No emergency could be more important than this moment. She steeled herself and took a step towards the conference room.

The phone vibrated again. This time, continuously. Lilia wasn’t just calling; she was literally gnawing at her attention, demanding it immediately.

“Marina, are you coming?” Alexander Petrovich, the head of the firm, had stepped out of the conference room. His gaze slid over her face, then down to the vibrating phone on the table. “Our important clients are waiting.”

“Yes, of course, sorry,” she said, her voice tight, and, giving in to a sudden impulse, she grabbed the phone and forcefully turned it off. Her heart was hammering somewhere in her throat. A stupid, hysterical reaction. Now she’d be worried about what was wrong with Lilia.

She entered the conference room. A spacious room, a large table of light oak, her entire project team, and opposite them – the Lazarev family. The head of the family, Vladimir, looked at her with businesslike interest. His wife, Irina, with warm curiosity.

Marina forced a smile, turned on the laptop, and laid out the folders. Her hands were shaking slightly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lazarev, colleagues,” she began, and her voice, to her relief, sounded even and confident. “Today, I will present to you the project of your future home. I haven’t just created an interior. I’ve tried to create a space that would become an extension of your family, your worldview…”

She immersed herself in the presentation. The words flowed naturally. She showed the sketches, explained the choice of materials, demonstrated the 3D model where the virtual camera flew through bright, airy rooms. She saw the Lazarevs’ faces gradually come alive, a smile appear on Irina’s lips, Vladimir nodding approvingly at some engineering solution.

The nervousness began to give way to professional excitement, a light euphoria. It was going well. She was doing it! Lilia’s calls faded into the background, becoming a blurry spot of anxiety somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness.

She approached the key moment – the presentation of the living room, the heart of the home, the place where, according to her plan, the whole family would gather.

“And here, as you can see, we use panoramic glazing to seamlessly merge the interior space with the garden. The light will enter at such an angle that even in winter…”

The door to the conference room opened quietly. The frightened face of Katya, the intern, appeared in the doorway.

“Marina, sorry to interrupt,” she whispered, “there’s an urgent call for you. On the landline. The person says it’s a matter of life and death. Can’t wait.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. All eyes turned from Marina to the pale Katya and back. Alexander Petrovich frowned. The Lazarevs leaned back from the table with polite bewilderment.

An icy wave passed through Marina’s body. She knew who it was. She knew with absolute certainty.

“Tell them I’m in an important meeting,” she said quietly but clearly, trying to maintain her composure.

“I did!” Katya whispered, on the verge of tears. “She said that… that if you don’t come to the phone right now, you might regret it for the rest of your life. She’s having… hysterics.”

The last phrase was uttered very quietly, but in the tomb-like silence of the conference room, everyone heard it.

Alexander Petrovich’s face turned crimson. He nodded towards the door. Katya vanished.

“Marina Vladimirovna,” he spoke quietly, but every word fell like honed steel. “We are waiting. If your personal problems are so urgent, we can reschedule…”

“No! No, I’m sorry, everything’s fine,” Marina felt herself burning all over. Humiliation, rage, panic – all mixed into a tight knot, constricting her throat. She tried to catch the lost thread of the presentation. “So, the living room… the light… the angles…”

She launched the next part of the 3D model, but her fingers were trembling, and she clicked the wrong icon. Instead of views of the living room, a technical schematic of the ventilation system appeared on the huge wall-sized screen – dry, drab lines that had nothing to do with her poetic description.

Vladimir Lazarev coughed politely.

“Ventilation is, of course, important,” he remarked, and a hint of mockery touched his voice for the first time.

Marina began to explain incoherently that it was a mistake, trying to get back to the right slide. But panic had completely taken hold of her. She stumbled over her words, her explanations became disjointed, she forgot the key lighting calculations she herself had made.

She saw the interest in the clients’ eyes fade, replaced by polite boredom, and then disappointment. She saw Alexander Petrovich look at her with icy contempt. She saw her colleagues look away, embarrassed for her.

The presentation turned into a complete disaster. She mumbled something about the remaining details and gave up, falling helplessly silent.

“Thank you, Marina Vladimirovna,” Alexander Petrovich said dryly. “We will review the materials further. Colleagues, please provide Mrs. Lazareva with all the blueprints.”

He wasn’t looking at her. No one was looking at her.

The meeting was over. The clients left, trying not to look in her direction. The team dispersed into corners, discussing what had happened in whispers.

Marina was left alone in the large, suddenly empty conference room. The air, filled with energy and promise just minutes ago, was now stale and heavy. She slowly gathered her folders. Her hands felt like lead. A deafening ringing filled her ears.

She turned her phone on. Notifications popped up on the screen: 17 missed calls from “Lilia” and several voicemails.

Marina walked out into the empty hallway, leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the panoramic window. Life bustled outside, cars sped by, people walked. But inside her, everything was dead and shattered. Years of work, months on this specific project, a chance to prove her worth – all crossed out by one selfish impulse of her “best friend.”

She felt utterly destroyed. And through this all-consuming feeling, another, new, unfamiliar emotion broke through. Hot, sharp, poisonous.

Rage. Pure, undiluted rage at Lilia.

She squeezed the phone so hard the screen protector cracked. Tears finally streamed from her eyes, but they weren’t tears of hurt or self-pity. They were tears of powerless fury.

At that moment, the phone vibrated again in her hand. “Lilia.”

Marina looked at that name, at that stupid heart emoji she herself had once set next to it. She looked at it through a veil of tears and the crack on the glass. And for the first time in many years, she felt not the slightest desire to answer that call. Only one desire arose, frightening in its intensity – to hurl the phone against the wall, to smash it, so that this name would disappear from the screen and from her life forever.

But she didn’t do it. She just slowly slid down the glass to the floor, hid her face in her knees, and cried quietly, feeling the crack run not only across her phone’s glass but through the very foundation of her friendship and her own life. And the phone in her hand continued to vibrate insistently and indifferently, demanding her attention, as it always had.

Chapter 3: “I Only Love You”

The rain started suddenly, like everything else bad that day. Heavy, fat drops drummed against the glass facade of the office building, turning the world outside into a blurred, grey-watery canvas. For Marina, it was just a continuation of the internal downpour already raging inside her soul. She stepped outside without even opening her umbrella, allowing the water to lash her face, mingling with the hot, salty tears of powerlessness and rage.

The journey home felt like moving through a thick, viscous nightmare. She barely remembered getting on the metro, getting off at her stop, walking the familiar streets without feeling the ground beneath her feet. The hum of the humiliating silence from the conference room still echoed in her ears, interrupted only by the persistent, ghostly vibration of the phone she now clutched in her fist so tightly the metal casing dug into her palm.

Her apartment, usually such a quiet and cozy refuge, greeted her with a tomblike silence. Marina leaned her back against the door, closing her eyes. The moment played on a loop in her head: the intern’s frightened face, Alexander Petrovich’s furrowed brows, Vladimir Lazarev’s mocking cough, the technical schematic on the huge screen… And overlaid on all of it – the name on her phone. “Lilia.”

She threw her bag with the folders onto the floor. The folders burst open, and snow-white sheets with her blueprints, her dreams, her pain, scattered across the hallway floor like a funeral salute to her career. Marina walked into the living room, collapsed onto the sofa, and stared at the wall. Emptiness. Total, deafening emptiness. Even the anger had subsided, leaving behind only a scorched, lifeless plain of despair.

She sat like that for an unknown amount of time. The rain tapped against the window. Dusk slowly drew the room into its grey embrace. Marina didn’t turn on the lights. It seemed any ray of light, any movement, would break this fragile numbness, and the pain would return with renewed force.

And then, a knock sounded in the silence. Hesitant at first, then more insistent. Marina flinched; her heart skipped a beat and froze. It couldn’t be anyone she knew. A delivery person? A neighbor?

The knock repeated. Firm, confident. Then she heard a voice. The very voice she had been ready to smash to pieces just hours before.

“Marin! Marinochka, darling! I know you’re in there! Please, open up! I really need to talk to you!”

Lilia. She had come. In person. Without calling first. It was so out of character that it snapped Marina out of her stupor for a second. Anger, cold and sharp, pierced her again. She clenched her fists. No. Not a chance. She wouldn’t open the door. She wouldn’t talk to her. Let her stand there. Let her leave.

“Marina, I’m not leaving. I’ll stand here all night if I have to. Please…”

Strange notes sounded in her voice. Not the usual demanding clucking, but something cracked, almost… desperate.

Marina slowly rose from the sofa and walked to the door. She looked through the peephole.

On the landing, under the dim light of the bulb, stood Lilia. But it wasn’t the Lilia who had glittered at “Julien” that morning. The raspberry-colored dress was soaked through and clung shapelessly to her figure. Her hat was gone, and her famous, painstakingly styled hair was wet, disheveled, and hung in pathetic strands. She stood hugging her shoulders, making her look surprisingly small and vulnerable. But what struck Marina most was her face. It was pale, devoid of any makeup, and her eyes were red, tearful, and filled with such genuine anguish that Marina’s heart, against her will, clenched.

She mechanically turned the key and opened the door.

“Lil… what’s wrong?” she whispered.

Lilia looked at her with her huge, tear-filled eyes, and her lips trembled.

“He left me,” she exhaled, and her voice broke into a wrenching, childish whimper. “Sergei. He dumped me. Dumped me, Marin! Said I was… that I was too complicated. That I wanted too much. And he left.”

She took a step forward, and large, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. They seemed real. Marina froze, uncertain. Her own disaster suddenly paled in comparison to this sudden grief of her friend. The old, years-trained reflex – to comfort, to save, to be the rock – kicked in faster than conscious thought.

“Come in, you’re soaked,” Marina said quietly, retreating into the hallway.

Lilia stepped over the threshold and, without taking off her wet coat, suddenly hugged her, pressing her wet, cold face against Marina’s neck.