Yulia Smirnova always believed she had the perfect marriage. Her husband, Dmitry, was a businessman who frequently traveled for work. Every time he left, he would call, send pictures, and promise to be back soon.
But one evening, as she sipped her tea and lazily flipped through TV channels, her world came crashing down.
On the screen was a live news interview about a new company opening in Saint Petersburg. The journalist was speaking to a man—tall, well-dressed, confident.
Yulia’s heart nearly stopped.
It was Dmitry.
Her Dmitry.
Only the caption didn’t say Dmitry Smirnov. It said Andrey Volkov.
And the worst part? Standing next to him, smiling warmly, was another woman. Holding his hand.
Yulia dropped her cup. The tea spilled everywhere.
She grabbed her phone and dialed his number. It rang. And rang. Until finally—
“Hello, my love,” Dmitry’s familiar voice answered.
Yulia’s hands shook. She looked at the screen. The man on TV was still talking, still smiling, still very much not on a business trip.
She took a deep breath. “Where are you?”
Dmitry chuckled. “In a meeting, sweetheart. I’ll call you later.”
Click.
Yulia felt dizzy. Her husband—her loyal, honest, devoted husband—was living a second life.
The next day, she packed her bags and took the first train to Saint Petersburg. She had to see it for herself.
And what she found was worse than she could have imagined.
Dmitry—or Andrey—wasn’t just living a double life. He had an entirely separate identity, a different house, another family. A wife. A daughter.
For ten years.
Yulia stood outside his house, staring through the window as her husband kissed another woman goodbye before heading to work.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
She simply pulled out her phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the police.
Because Dmitry Smirnov had died in a car accident fifteen years ago.