Ocean Highway

I listened to her. But the first thing I did, even before heading to the visa center, was run to a random ATM in the shopping mall by the metro to check the balance. My heart was ready to leap out of my chest, and my hands were shaking as I slid the heavy black card into the machine's slot. I entered the temporary PIN code provided in Mark's note and froze, pressing the "Check Balance" button.

The figure that flashed on the screen a moment later forced me to frantically slap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming in shock across the hall. Ten thousand dollars glowed in neat rows of digits. Nearly a million rubles at the current exchange rate! To Mark, this was pocket change, the price of a single lunch with partners, but to me, it was the annual budget of my modest life. Right then and there, I transferred a portion of the funds and completely paid off the cursed, suffocating Sberbank credit card, breathing freely for the first time in six months.

The next month and a half flew by like one prolonged, crazy day. Emergency visa processing through a consulate in a third country, endless, intoxicating shopping sprees, buying new light dresses, swimwear, and shorts… I took an unpaid leave of absence at work, flat-out lying to my boss that I needed to check into a hospital urgently for tests. He grumbled but let me go.

And so, forty-five days later, I stood in the middle of the vast, echoing terminal of Sheremetyevo Airport. In my hands was a single suitcase, inside of which lay my new life, purchased with Mark’s money. Ahead was a long, grueling flight over continents, and beyond it—an unexplored ocean, palm trees, and a man with piercing blue eyes who was waiting for me on the other side of the world, completely confident that he held all the strings of control in his hands.