Harmony11 (2025)

20/09/2025

The first day of summer for six-year-old Oliver began with restless anticipation. Grandad William had decided to take him to the apiary for the whole summer—a place he’d heard so much about from his dad! Mum had hesitated at first but eventually agreed, though not for the entire season, just until August. Then, she and Dad would come to fetch him from the remote countryside—he’d need to prepare for school. This year, he’d be starting Year One!

Grandad William arrived in his old Land Rover, bringing treats from the forest, but Oliver barely glanced at them. He buzzed around his grandad, tugging at his shirtsleeve every few minutes, eager to leave—half convinced something would happen to make Mum change her mind. Chuckling at his grandson’s impatience, Grandad ruffled his hair.

"Don’t fret, Ollie, it’s settled! Best eat your breakfast now—lunch will be at the apiary!"

Finally, they loaded the car and set off. For the first time, Oliver was without his parents’ watchful eyes. But Grandad wasn’t just any grown-up—he was a friend! He never lectured or scolded, and you could talk to him about anything, discussing big ideas like equals. No condescending looks, just two serious people having a proper chat.

Oliver dozed off embarrassingly quickly on the drive. He woke only when the car jolted onto a bumpy dirt track, leaving the main road behind. Outside, birch groves drifted past, so close he could almost touch them. And the smell! Nothing like the city. Fields stretched out, splashed with bluebells, buttercups, and daisies, swaying like a green sea under the breeze. It felt as if they were sailing on a boat, Grandad at the helm.

"Are we nearly there?" Oliver nudged his grandad’s shoulder, pretending he hadn’t been asleep—just lost in thought.

"Nearly. Just beyond that copse. Old Tom’s probably waiting. And Luna with her kitten too."

"Luna’s the mum?" Oliver guessed. "Will she let me play with the kitten?"

"If you respect her and treat the kitten kindly, of course. But if you’re rowdy, she’ll swipe you both—strictest mum you’ll meet. Not like yours."

"Me? Scolded by a cat?" Oliver scoffed. No cat had ever dared lay a paw on him!

"Not just any cat. You’ve never met one like Luna. Just don’t stare her down too long," Grandad warned. "She’s gentle, but she’s still a wild thing—protective of her young."

At last, they arrived. Oliver saw two timber cabins—one large, one small. From the smaller one, at the sound of the Land Rover, emerged... a lynx!

Oliver tensed, but seeing her rub against Grandad’s legs, he dared to step closer.

"Now that’s a cat!" he breathed. Luna sniffed him, then—as if approving—winked and brushed against his legs. When Oliver crouched, she nudged his nose with hers, making him laugh.

"Properly introduced now," Grandad smiled. "You’re one of hers."

Oliver gaped at the striped bees darting about—nothing like city insects. One landed on his cheek. Then disaster struck. Missing Grandad’s warning, he swatted it. Pain seared his face, worse than any jab! Gritting his teeth, he swayed but didn’t cry. Grandad inspected the sting, plucked out the barb, and clapped his shoulder.

"Proper little tough lad! Didn’t make a peep. Bees only sting when they’re defending their lives. Leave ’em be, and they’ll do the same."

A bearded man with twinkling eyes shook Oliver’s hand. "Grandad Tom, at your service. You must be Ollie."

Oliver nodded. "I’m staying with you now," he announced.

"Welcome aboard!" Tom spread his arms.

"Grandad Tom, there’s a bee on your forehead," Oliver warned.

Tom gently cupped it, whispered something, and released it. The bee circled once, then vanished. Amazing!

Within a week, Oliver knew the land, had made peace with the bees, and—most importantly—befriended Luna’s kitten, whom he named Leo. They played chase and hide-and-seek in the woods. Leo always found him; Oliver never stood a chance. But when he called, "I give up! Where are you, Leo?" the kitten would pounce from a tree, purring.

Time with the men was just as thrilling. After the bee sting, no one coddled him. Grandad William removed the stinger, Tom gave his shoulder a squeeze—"Happens to the best of us"—and that was that. No fuss. Oliver strutted all day with a swollen cheek, feeling grown-up. He even considered balancing it with another sting, but held off. Mum would’ve fussed over bandages; here, it was just part of life.

He learned to rise early, washing in icy water that jolted him awake. He fished with the men, catching perch they later scaled and gutted—his own knife, a gift from Tom, hung proudly at his belt. No one fretted over nicked fingers.

Once, Tom carried a spotted fawn from the woods, its leg broken. While the men tended it, Oliver stroked its muzzle, whispering comfort. They built an enclosure, and though the fawn—Bambi—healed, it never wandered far.

"Mum’s nearby," Tom said. "She’ll come for him."

Sure enough, one day Bambi bolted at her call. Oliver’s heart ached, but Grandad William took him berry-picking—wild strawberries, blackberries—and taught him to spot edible mushrooms. They returned with baskets full, preserving them for winter.

One evening, Oliver saw Grandad William talking to a large "dog" by a stump. It listened intently, offered its paw for inspection, then vanished into the trees.

"Your friend?" Oliver asked.

"Wolf. Tom and I freed him from a trap years back. Now he watches over us in the woods."

"Why doesn’t he stay?"

"Wild things belong wild. You can be friends, but never cage them—no matter how much you want to." Oliver frowned. He’d planned to take Leo home.

Then one morning, Leo and Luna were gone. No answer to his calls.

Tom set down his tools. "Lost Leo? Luna’s teaching him—how to hunt, shelter, survive. Come winter, they’ll leave for good. She’s a fine teacher. He’ll thrive."

As August…
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20/09/2025

Henry Whitmore hadn’t felt right since morning. His head spun strangely, and his vision kept blurring. Honestly, he’d hoped not to wake up at all, but his stubborn body refused to give in. And Sophie wasn’t with him anymore… He sighed heavily.

The queue at the supermarket till was growing, and the woman ahead was taking her time. Henry fidgeted impatiently.

The woman—well-dressed, elegant, even beautiful—stood perfectly calm. Her daughter had asked for oat milk, so she’d popped in. A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. *Let’s be honest, you didn’t want to go home anyway.* Lately, home had felt anything but welcoming. Not that they hadn’t built a lovely life—good jobs, a nice flat in London—but they’d stopped talking. Once, she and Ben had been like that young couple behind her, laughing over nothing.

The scruffy bloke with the tattooed neck nuzzled his girlfriend. She’d have been pretty if not for the heavy black eyeliner, dark nails, and shaved side of her head. Punk rebellion, she’d call it. But her boyfriend gazed at her like she hung the moon, tearing off bits of a fresh baguette for her.

*Honestly, this is ridiculous.* No staff in sight, and the queue wasn’t moving. The last in line—a busy-looking man with a briefcase, yoghurt, and pastries—huffed irritably.

Henry noticed it all from the corner of his eye, an old army habit. *Scout’s instincts.* But his hands wouldn’t cooperate, fumbling with his worn-out wallet, coins slipping through his fingers.

The cashier snapped at him. *Old men, always holding everyone up.*

Henry hurried to leave—forget the fancy sourdough, bloody overpriced anyway. He and Sophie had lived modestly. Just their pensions, really. But their little flat had started falling apart—leaky taps, burst pipes. Repairs cost money, and at ninety, he couldn’t manage alone. And Sophie… well, she hadn’t lived to see it.

They’d met during the war. Sophie had lied about her age to enlist—just a girl, really. A nurse, fearless, dragging wounded men from battlefields. Henry had been a scout. Near the war’s end, he’d been captured, unconscious, no ID. If the Germans had known he was Jewish… but they hadn’t noticed. When the camp was liberated, he was half-dead. Sophie saved him, even faked papers for him. Clever girl, his Sophie.

No children—Sophie’s health had been ruined. They’d worked hard, lived quietly, and moved to England in the ’70s when she fell ill. They’d been terrified—new country, new fears. But Sophie got treatment.

Then she was gone, and his days turned grey. Just bread and milk, enough for an old man.

At the till, Henry finally stopped counting his meagre coins. He mumbled an apology—then slumped to the floor.

The elegant woman rushed to him, cradling his head. The punk lad rolled his jacket under Henry’s neck; his girlfriend called an ambulance. The businessman fanned him with his hat.

*Funny, this little island—stubborn, proud, always complaining about immigrants. But no one ignores another’s pain.*

By the time paramedics arrived, the strangers had bonded. Smiles softened, eyes warmed.

Emma—a doctor—took charge. Henry’s pills were in his pocket; he’d just forgotten them. She noted details, called the hospital next day.

Henry was fine, ready to go home. But who’d fetch him?

Emma drove him herself. Why this frail old man tugged at her heart, she couldn’t say. Then she saw his flat—a bucket catching ceiling drips, peeling walls. The image haunted her.

Next evening, she knocked. No answer—just laughter inside. She stepped in, stunned. Henry sat beaming in his armchair. The punk couple crouched at his feet, spellbound.

*"Emma, love, come in!"* Henry tried to offer his seat.

They started small—paint, a new tap. But the old building crumbled at the touch. Repairs snowballed.

Henry protested—he didn’t need help—but his heart felt lighter than in years.

The punks worked tirelessly. The businessman—turns out he lived nearby—was a decent plasterer. Bought supplies himself.

One Tuesday, Emma’s Ben appeared in the chaos.

*"Bloody hell, what’ve you done here?"*

Emma gaped. She’d mentioned Henry, sure—but Ben had been distant for months. Yet here he was, sleeves rolled up, checking wiring, barking orders to his assistant.

He rallied his IT firm: *A veteran. Alone. We’ll help.*

Emma spread the word. So did the businessman. The punks posted online.

First came the office lads—painting walls, fitting a spare door. The boss’s nephew brought new windows. Neighbours donated tiles. Strangers delivered kitchen…
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

20/09/2025

“How can you not understand?” James slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “This will ruin our marriage!”

“No, it won’t,” sighed Emily.
She regretted coming. He’d asked for help closing up their holiday cottage, and she’d agreed—but that meant four hours trapped together in the car.

It was late autumn, cold and damp. Rain had fallen all week, but today the sky had cleared. Side by side, they readied the cottage for winter: packing away food (no mice allowed), sealing the shutters, draining the pipes. To Emily, it felt like they were forcing the house into hibernation, locking away its warmth until spring.

As they left, sunlight broke through unexpectedly, casting gold over the garden. Their cottage looked small, hunched, and lonely. Tears pricked Emily’s eyes.

She buckled her seatbelt, struck by the thought that she *was* that cottage. Walls intact, roof secure—but no life inside. The windows weren’t lit; they were boarded shut. And she, too, was hunched under the weight of it.

Marriage had become suffocating. She’d wanted out for years but felt stuck, drowning in silence.

“Bad” didn’t begin to describe it. The misery had started on day two.
James had summoned her to the kitchen. “You left the shower curtain open. Water’s dripping on the floor—fix it.”
She did, baffled. Why couldn’t he just adjust it himself?

“Come here,” he’d demanded next. “Why did you open a new milk carton?”
“I didn’t see the other one.”
“What were you *looking* with?”
Her eyes, obviously. But he’d sneered, “Are you blind?”

This was his pattern. If *she* noticed his socks on the floor or an open window, she simply tidied up—no lecture. But he’d call her over, mock her, demand corrections. “Do you understand?” he’d ask, as if she were a child.

“Are you even normal?” he’d say.

By year two, she wasn’t sure.

Then she learned the word *gaslighting*—when someone warps your sense of reality until you doubt yourself.

At work, Emily was sharp, efficient. At home, she flinched at his voice, bracing for the next criticism. Her survival trick? Small victories. On awful days, she’d tidy a drawer, bake a cake, fold laundry—proof she’d *done* something.

“Why are you staring at the wardrobe?” he’d snap.
(Because she’d organised it perfectly, sleeves aligned, socks rolled.)

Then came the job offer. Another city. A four-hour flight away.

She accepted instantly.

James raged. “This will destroy us!”

“No,” she whispered. *Not this.*

Later, at a child’s birthday party, she watched a science show. The entertainer asked, “What’s the boiling point of liquid nitrogen?” The kids, clueless, guessed wildly.

Emily realised: her marriage was like that show. Meant for someone older, wiser. She’d boarded a luxury coach, expecting vistas and comfort—only to find no air, no view, no escape.

She didn’t say it aloud, …
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20/09/2025

**Why Should I Give You My Flat?**

It was Mrs. Eleanor Whitaker’s birthday—a milestone, in fact. She had been bustling about the kitchen since dawn, determined to make everything perfect, though managing such a feast was no small feat. She had planned the menu weeks in advance, scoured the finest farm shops for fresh vegetables, artisan cheeses, and the best cuts of meat. Supermarket fare simply wouldn’t do. She wanted the whole family gathered around her table, her children and granddaughter well-fed and content. And, of course, she had baked the cake herself—her famous honey cake, the very one she had made for her daughter Charlotte and son Nicholas on their birthdays.

Eleanor let her mind wander to the past, when their home had been full of life. Her husband, Professor Edmund Whitaker of Oxford’s physics department, their children Charlotte and Nicholas, and herself, a piano teacher. Edmund, celebrated for his contributions to science and his connections in high places, had been granted this spacious four-bedroom flat, which Eleanor had furnished with exquisite taste. Through sheer determination—as they used to say—she had acquired a crystal chandelier for the drawing room, a mahogany cabinet, and a fine Wedgwood dinner service. The perfect linen tablecloths, napkins, and antique silverware had been her pride. She had been overjoyed when she finally secured a rare soup tureen, so that soup could be served properly, not straight from the pot. Friends often remarked that her home resembled a museum or a grand salon from the Victorian era, and Eleanor relished the compliment. She took pride in hosting, playing the piano for guests, and engaging in genteel conversation. This was her castle, her kingdom. Her cooking was legendary, and Edmund and the children had grown rather spoiled because of it.

"Mummy," little Nicholas had once asked, "will my wife cook as well as you?"
"I hope so, dear. But it’s rare to find someone who can," she had replied with a smile.
"Then I’ll just live with you forever!"
"Oh, no you won’t," she had laughed. "Children must grow up and leave the nest in good time, my boy. No one should live with their parents forever—you must make your own way." She had always believed in that. Better to be a Sunday grandmother, she thought, than to crowd under one roof like some ancient clan.

But then, quite suddenly, her happy life had ended, and Eleanor found herself alone.

Edmund had passed away without warning one grey morning before dawn. Not even the ambulance had arrived in time. His heart. He had complained of pains, taken his pills dutifully, seen doctors—but such is life. Mortal, and all too often abruptly so.

Eleanor had grieved, then pulled herself together and carried on as best she could. The children had flown the nest, just as she had always said they should. Charlotte had graduated with a degree in economics, married Simon, and moved to a rented flat in a rough part of town—the best they could afford. Their daughter, Emily, had been born in the local hospital. Nicholas had started seeing a girl named Alexandra, rented a room in a shared house, and moved out as well.

When Charlotte had first married, she had tentatively asked, "Mum, could we stay with you for a little while? Just until Simon finds a proper job?"
"No, darling," Eleanor had replied. "You’ve married—now begin your own life. Do you think your father and I had help? We struggled through shared houses, flats without proper heating or water. But we made it, and so will you."

She had told Nicholas the same: "You’re a man now. Earn your keep, support your family. If you’ve taken responsibility, see it through." The children had resented it, but they hadn’t argued. Who would force themselves on their mother against her will?

Eleanor believed distance made the heart grow fonder. She called regularly, sent gifts for birthdays and holidays, invited them for tea and cakes, and took them to concerts where she accompanied her students on the piano, trying to recreate that perfect family idyll.

And so today, she had prepared a grand birthday luncheon. The smells of roasting meat, herbs, and spices filled the flat. Eleanor had taken care with her hair and applied just enough makeup. She wore her concert dress and diamond earrings—a gift from Edmund.

The family arrived in turns. First Nicholas and Alexandra, bearing a lavish bouquet of roses and a fine bone china tea set.
"Oh, how lovely! Such delicate work. Thank you, darlings," Eleanor exclaimed, embracing them. "You always know how to please me."
"We tried to find something you’d adore," Nicholas said.
"Alexandra, what a divine dress. So flowing—and your face looks positively cherubic! Like a little doll."
"Yes, Mum, we actually wanted to tell you—" Nicholas began.
"Later, later! Charlotte and Simon are on their way. Their dreadful old car broke down again—they’re taking three buses, but they’ll be here."

Half an hour later, Charlotte arrived with Simon and Emily. They brought tulips and a small velvet box containing a golden pendant with gemstones.
"How they sparkle! Thank you, my darlings. I see they’re not diamonds, but still quite lovely. I shan’t wear them with these earrings, but they’ll suit my ring nicely."
"We couldn’t afford diamonds, Mum," Charlotte said wearily. "That old car eats all our money, the rent’s gone up again, and Emily’s music lessons… By the time wages come in, it’s all gone before you know it."
"Charlotte, must you spoil the mood with such dreary talk? Everyone has troubles—they pass. ‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’" Eleanor said brightly. "Now, everyone—to the table!"

The guests settled around the lavishly set table, praising the food and making polite conversation about work and the weather.
"How lovely this is, children. If only your father were here. He always brought me the grandest bouquets and jewels. And I cooked all his favourites. Oh, how I miss him… Gone too soon." She sighed. "But we shan’t dwell on sadness. After lunch, I’ll play for us all, and we’ll sing."

"Mum," Nicholas raised his glass, "we have another gift for you—a surprise. Truth be told, it was a surprise for us too."
"Oh? Do tell," Eleanor said, lifting her own glass. Perhaps, after all, she would get those diamonds she had hoped for.
"Mum… Alexandra and I are expecting a baby."
"Oh! Well, that is news!" Eleanor managed after a pause. "What a delightful surprise! How wonderful! Come here, let me hug you."

Charlotte rushed to embrace her brother. Simon congratulated Alexandra. Little Emily simply beamed, happy that everyone else was.
"Now, now, settle down," Eleanor said, a touch sharply. She was pleased, but irked that the attention had shifted from her. "Who’d like seconds?"

"Mum, what do you think of this?" Nicholas slid a brochure for a new countryside cottage development across the table.
"Charming," she said, flipping through. "Are you buying?"
"No, Mum. It’s not for us—it’s for you."
"For me? A gift?"
"No. You see, we’ve lived in that dreadful shared house for years. The communal bathroom, the kitchen… You’ve seen it."
"Yes, ghastly. But what has that to do with me?"
"We’ve endured it, but with a baby coming, we can’t raise a child there. It’s impossible."
"Then rent something better, or save for a mortgage."
"Mum, I work tirelessly. Alexandra does too. But it’s not enough. We’re asking you to sell this flat and help us …
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20/09/2025

**Diary Entry**

Snow drifted down in gentle flakes, blanketing the streets and rooftops of London, settling on the coats of hurried passersby. Through the haze of white, a woman trudged forward, clutching a small bundle wrapped in a faded blue blanket. The baby, a boy with a tiny knitted cap, slept soundly against her chest, oblivious to the turn his life was about to take.

She paused outside a weathered brick building, its sign barely legible: *St. Agnes’ Home for Children.* Her gaze lifted to the sky, as if begging for mercy or courage, but the heavens offered no reply. Her hands shook, her pulse thudded so loudly she feared someone might hear. Slowly, she placed the child on the doorstep and tucked a note beside him:

*"Oliver. Forgive me. I love him. There was no other way."*

She lingered, half-hoping someone would intervene. Her fingers curled into fists, her shoulders trembled with silent sobs. Then, step by step, she retreated—into the night, into the unknown, away from the life she’d known.

Minutes later, the door creaked open. Margaret Whitmore, a matronly woman with kind eyes, gasped at the sight. She scooped the child into her arms, murmuring, "Who could leave you out here, little one? You'd have frozen to death..."

She didn’t know then that this moment would stay with her always—the way Oliver’s tiny fingers curled instinctively, the way the snow melted on his cheeks like silent tears.

For Oliver, St. Agnes’ became his world. First, a cot in the nursery, then a shared dormitory with scuffed wooden lockers, later a classroom that smelled of chalk and old paper. He grew used to it—to Margaret’s comforting voice, to the sternness of Mrs. Higgins, to the constant refrain of *"behave, don’t make a fuss."* He learned to expect nothing. Every time prospective parents visited, his heart stilled, only to sink again when they passed him by. He pretended it didn’t matter.

At eight, his friend Thomas asked, "D’you reckon your mum’s still out there? Maybe she’s lookin’ for you?"

"No," Oliver replied softly.

"How d’you know?"

"Because if she were, she’d have found me by now."

He said it calmly. That night, he buried his face in his pillow, stifling tears so no one would hear.

Years rolled on. The home taught survival—how to fight, how to take a punch, how to blend in. But Oliver was different. He lost himself in books, in dreams, in the hope of something more.

At fourteen, he asked Margaret, "Why did she leave me?"

She hesitated. "Sometimes people don’t choose, Oliver. Sometimes life’s too cruel. Maybe she had no choice either."

"Would you have left me?"

She didn’t answer. Just smoothed his hair gently.

At sixteen, he got his first passport. *Father: —. Mother: —.*

He stayed on, studying for college, working evenings as a warehouse porter—hauling crates, scrubbing floors, enduring the foreman’s curses. He never complained. He knew if he cracked, there’d be nothing left.

Sometimes he dreamed of running through an endless field. A woman stood in the distance, waving, calling—but her voice never reached him. The harder he ran, the farther she drifted.

One evening, he found the note in his file, which Margaret had secretly given him. The paper was brittle, the ink smudged, as if written by a trembling hand.

*"Oliver. Forgive me. I love him. There was no other way."*

He read it over and over, as if the words could bridge the years. Finally, he decided—he needed the truth.

He started at the archives. The registrar gave him little: a birth date, a health record, the name of the hospital—St. Mary’s. But it was a start.

The hospital led him to midwife Eleanor Hart, who’d worked there for decades. "January 2004?" she mused. "I remember a lass. Young thing, from the countryside. Had a boy, then vanished. Never registered the birth. We tried to find her, but she’d disappeared."

"Her name?"

"Emily, I think. Or Lily. She was thin, always crying. Said her family disowned her, the father was gone."

It was more than he’d hoped for.

He scoured parish records, hunting for clues. One entry stood out: *"Male child, mother unnamed, St. Mary’s Hospital."* That was him.

Then came the villages. Door after door, faces blank or pitying. "Let the past lie, lad," they said.

Until, in a tiny hamlet called Little Bramley, he saw her—a woman with the same green eyes as his. His chest tightened.

"Excuse me... Are you Emily?"

She turned. Went pale. "Oliver...?"

"How d’you know my…
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20/09/2025

**Diary Entry – 10th September**

*"Neither a husband nor success,"* whispered the girls behind her back at the reunion. Their faces fell as her companion entered the room.
*"Look, Belyaeva’s here. Alone, as usual."*

The words cut into Kseniya like a knife. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to—she already knew who it was. Veronica Odintsova.

The queen bee of their school hive, whose venom had only grown sharper with time.

The restaurant hummed like a disturbed swarm. Ten years later. Music blared, drowning out clinking glasses and hollow compliments.
Kseniya took slow steps forward, feeling like she’d stepped onto enemy ground. Her presence wouldn’t go unnoticed.

*"That dress… must be from some discount store,"* chimed in another voice. Svetlana Polyakova, Veronica’s eternal shadow.

Kseniya traced the rim of her mineral water glass. The dress had been custom-made from her own sketches. But they’d never understand. To them, value was measured in flashy logos.

She scanned the room—the same faces, only weathered: receding hairlines, crow’s feet, extra weight. But their eyes still held the same hunger—to prop themselves up by tearing others down.

She felt their stares burning into her back. They were waiting for a reaction. Waiting for her to shrink, to flee to the toilets like she had at sixteen when they’d poured ice-cold soda down her neck in front of the whole canteen.
But Kseniya didn’t flinch. She only adjusted the perfect crease in her sleeve.

She took a sip. The water tasted flat.

Veronica couldn’t resist breaking the silence. She strutted over, dripping in sequins and smugness, her entourage trailing behind.
*"Kseniya! You came! I thought you’d be too scared."*

Her smile was masterful—perfect veneers, not an ounce of warmth.

*"Good evening, Veronica,"* Kseniya replied evenly, meeting her gaze.

*"So, what’s new? Still buried in dusty archives? Sorting through nobody’s paperwork?"*

It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict. A declaration of her irrelevance.

*"I changed jobs."*

*"Really?"* Veronica’s voice dripped with mock surprise. *"Promoted to senior archivist with a hazard pay bonus?"*

A hush fell around them. Conversations died. All eyes were on them—this was their little spectacle.

Kseniya allowed herself a faint smile. She knew what they wanted. They craved confirmation of a dull, grey life—mortgages paid alone, dead-end prospects, proof their school hierarchy had been right.

*"Something like that,"* she said vaguely, giving them exactly what they craved.

Veronica snorted triumphantly, turning to her pack as if to say, *"See? Told you."*
*"I knew it. Nothing changes. No love life, no real career."*

The words rang loud enough for everyone to hear. A sentence handed down and sealed.

Kseniya lowered her eyes to her glass. Her fingers, wrapped around its stem, didn’t tremble. She simply waited.

Then the restaurant doors swung open.

A man walked in.

Tall, in an immaculate suit worth more than all their cars combined. His movements were calm, assured. He murmured something to the host, scanning the room.

The chatter choked into silence. The music suddenly felt too loud, too crude.

Every woman’s gaze snapped to him. *"Who is that? A politician? A CEO?"*

His frown softened the moment he spotted her—Kseniya. The smile he reserved only for her.

Ignoring the stunned faces, he strode across the room and touched her shoulder lightly.
*"Sorry I’m late. Negotiations ran over."*

She looked up, smiling back—warm, genuine.
*"It’s alright, Svyatoslav. I knew you’d come."*

He leaned down and kissed her—brief but certain. A touch so intimate it spoke louder than words.

Veronica’s face froze in pure shock. Her brain short-circuited, scrambling to process what didn’t fit her worldview.

She recovered first. Of course, she attacked.
*"Aren’t you going to introduce us?"* Her voice oozed saccharine malice.

*"Veronica, this is Svyatoslav,"* Kseniya said calmly. *"My former classmates."*

A fork clattered to the floor.
*"Wait… Orlov? Svyatoslav Orlov? The Svyatoslav Orlov?"*

Recognition crackled through the room. Phones that had been filming drunken dancing now turned toward them.

Svyatoslav Orlov. The rockstar whose ballads dominated every radio, whose concert tickets sold out in hours.

Veronica paled beneath her foundation. This was a gut punch. It shattered everything.

But she wasn’t done. Her weapon had never been brute force—just poison, delivered with a smile.
*"Well, well… We were just saying Belyaeva had neither a husband nor success. Turns out, you just took the easy way out."*

Her eyes raked over Kseniya.
*"Always the quiet one. Guess you played your cards right."*

A slap disguised as praise. An accusation of calculation.

Kseniya felt something tighten inside. She’d tried to keep the peace. That had been her mistake.

*"Veronica, let’s not do this."*

But Veronica took her restraint as weakness. As guilt.
*"Oh, come on! We’re all curious!"* She turned to the crowd. *"How did our little mouse snag an eagle like him? What’s your secret? Dusty manuscripts?"*

Svyatoslav tensed, waiting for Kseniya’s signal. But she just looked at Veronica—not at the woman, but the schoolgirl who’d always needed someone to trample.

Enough.

She rose slowly. No rush, no tremor. Just cold, absolute calm.
*"You asked what I do."*

Her voice was quiet, but in the silence, it carried.
*"You were close. It did start in an archive. I found a demo tape there—some unknown guy with a voice like nothing I’d ever heard."*

She glanced at Svyatoslav.
*"I spent a year restoring it, tracking him down, …
🔽 Scr0ll f0r p4rt 2 ⬇️

Harmony11

20/09/2025

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