The Weakling

“Which one is correct: seagull’s or of the seagull?” she asked her husband.

He flinched. His wife had been playing silent treatment for three days now, and her question—spoken in a calm, even voice—hit him like a whip.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He turned onto his side, facing her.
Grains of sand clung to his pale, sunless belly, swollen with comfortable, repulsive fat. His nearsighted eyes squinted, making them look small and dull. His round, almost feminine shoulders seemed broad only under a shirt—now it was clear how soft, flabby, and sloping they really were.

Ella nearly shuddered with disgust. She tried to hide it, unsuccessfully. Denis read everything in her eyes.

Pathetic mattress. Weakling. Gods, how disgusting.

He understood. He always did. A nerd. A bookworm. A sharpened pencil of a man. Nature had distributed ranks among humans in a strangely whimsical way. Strong, cruel, fearless alphas bred their own kind, pushing defective failures aside. That was how it should be. That was only fair.

But the weaklings—the frail, the underdeveloped—realized early that brute force wouldn’t earn them a place in life. So they grew big brains. Large, cunning brains. And one such runt invented the axe to replace the club—and handed it to the delighted alphas.

Then he invented pits lined with sharpened spears. One mammoth—and the whole tribe was fed. Place such traps along the settlement borders, and no enemy would threaten the tribe. And if, during a terrifying storm, you noticed a tree struck by heavenly fire and named it a sacred totem—then the tribe would have its own Great Priest.

And so the wild, shaggy beauties came to bow before the chief inventor. Because with him, you’d always be fed. Even if sleeping with him was unbearable. Even if he made you nauseous. Such was the law: you must live with the one who could provide you with a carefree life in a cozy cave. And grateful, muscular alphas would bring meat into that cave, while their foolish wives—who had chosen strength over intelligence—would clean the dwelling of the clever runt and bow before the splendor of his well-groomed wife…

Ella drifted through the waters of the business sea like anonymous office plankton when Denis proposed. Her friends insisted:

“He’s brilliant—you’ll never be lost with him!”
“Marry him already. Don’t make a fool of yourself,” her mother demanded.
“You don’t drink water from a pretty face,” her sister envied.
“Are you crazy, El? Money, power, a normal life!” screamed Marina, drunk beyond reason after another breakup with one of her alpha males. “Look at me! Do you like what you see?”

And Ella agreed.

The wedding was beautiful. Lavish. Complete with every imaginable flourish.
An arch entwined with roses by the azure ocean. The best orchestra in the world. Almond-flavored wedding cake shaped like a fragile princess castle. The country’s elite as guests. And Denis—beside her.

As they walked to the altar, Ella trembled. The groom’s palm was slick with sweat.

In a marriage, one loves and the other allows themselves to be loved. Wise words.
But what do you do when the one who loves you climbs into the marital bed, touches you with soft, sweaty hands, undresses you, breathes into your face? That was consensual rape. A violation of the human soul. How do you endure that? How do you survive until “it grows on you”?

Ella shook with filth and revulsion. After Denis fell asleep, clinging to her long, marble-smooth body, she pushed away his flabby arm and fled to the bathroom—the size of a good three-bedroom apartment.

She lived there. Fragrant foam, quiet music, expensive wine. An hour, two—and it got easier. She feared she was becoming a quiet alcoholic. When Denis called her my little mermaid, she smiled and thought that one day mermaid would turn into titmouse—or rather, into a wine-soaked drunk.

Five years of marriage crawled by like slugs, leaving a sticky trail in her soul. Ella understood—there would be no harmony. Ever. She couldn’t even conceive a child; her offended body fiercely rejected Denis.

His tenderness, respect, tact, expensive gifts, care—everything women pray for—meant nothing to her. Not even the money. So she decided to leave. The farther from Denis, the better. Let them gossip. Let them twist fingers at their temples. She didn’t care. Enough.

And the main reason—the push—was a secret.

A secret Ella kept deep inside, trusting no one, knowing it was the only thing that kept her alive. Or rather—the only one.

Alexander. Sasha. Shura. My love.

Ella liked the new house on the coast for only one reason—Denis would not be there for two weeks. A business trip. The vast Business Empire demanded close attention, and dear little Ella needed rest (from what exactly—no one knew).

She walked along the waterline, breathing in the fresh, heavily salted sea air, watching the burgundy, overheated sun hiss as it sank into turquoise water. She let fine, delicate sand run from palm to palm and recalled the fairy tale of Thumbelina, who had finally been allowed out of the mole’s gloomy burrow to look at the sun.

Ella even snorted back then—the mole looked frighteningly like Denis. A perfectly decent mole. It was just that Thumbelina liked elves. That was all. Why couldn’t moles accept that once and for all and marry practical, busy mice? Everyone would be happy.

Far behind her came the growl of an engine. A small dot grew larger, taking shape. An ordinary quad bike, somehow sneaking onto a guarded beach. Another fool decided to ride around—and stare at the hidden luxury villas. Money loves silence. But the poor have always been curious—how do they, the chosen ones, live?

A young guy clung tightly to the handlebars of the unruly quad bike, which bucked and sprayed clumps of wet sand in all directions, racing straight toward Ella.

She jumped aside. The rider nearly flew out of the seat when he turned to look at the unexpected goddess who had materialized right before his eyes. A white lace dress, fair hair, matte skin, the sunset—at a distance it was hard to tell whether she was a woman or sea foam that had taken on such a strange shape.

They met. They laughed. The young man, still not quite recovered, said in awe:

“Exactly! That’s it—The Birth of Venus. A mirage! I’m stunned! I swear, this image will stay with me for the rest of my life! This doesn’t happen! It just doesn’t!”

He reached for her and let a soft strand of her blond hair slide through his fingers.

He wasn’t especially handsome—just an ordinary young guy, one of thousands. Funny shorts, silly woven bracelets on his wrists, and a bold smile on his sun-darkened face. Very bold. Challenging. Insolent. Slap him for the audacity?

The slap never happened.

Instead, there was a kiss.

Bold. Confident. Shattering. As if the boy had kissed her a hundred times already, as if they had been married for a thousand years and had long since forgotten embarrassment. An explosion. A flash. Blindness—and then blinding light again.

Mine. My man. My scent. My smile. These hands—mine. Smooth skin with a musky, sea-salted smell. Bristled hair. Eyes—everything is mine.

Ella didn’t think. Ella knew.

They dissolved on the shore beneath the heavy canopy of a violet sky scattered with countless shameless stars—witnesses to their brazen meeting, which so easily and naturally grew into a sinful bond, like a tender, defenseless hop vine wrapping itself around and strangling all other plants, reigning alone in its triumphant splendor.

Denis sensed the changes in his wife. They were visible to the naked eye. He sensed them—and remained silent. Froze. Avoided looking Ella in the eyes, as if he—not she—were guilty.

Ella was torn by pity, but not by shame. She was taking what was hers. She wasn’t humiliating or hurting anyone. She wasn’t stealing. And she wasn’t lying. In the end, everything had to be said. Honestly. Denis would understand—he wasn’t an idiot.

Ella decided to arrange a farewell picnic. A friendly, honest conversation. They were adults; they would understand each other. The sea stretched before them, the sun, the breeze—no tears.

Denis sent away the guards, threw a towel onto the sand (no loungers), uncorked the wine, took off his shirt, tuning himself to a romantic mood (poor man).

Ella watched the seagulls. They circled, touching the tips of their sharp wings, playing, trying to brush against one another again and again to experience that intoxicating merging of two into one.

“Which one is correct,” she asked, “seagull’s or of the seagull?”

“What do you mean?”

“Love. Is it seagull’s love or of the seagull, Denis?”
Ella drained her glass and decisively tossed it aside.
“I’m divorcing you. We’ll never have love like that. I don’t want anything—no inheritance, nothing. Forgive me, Denis. I love another man. That’s all.”

She stood up.

Denis looked at her from below. Then he raised the phone to his ear and ordered sharply:

“Ignatov. To me.”

Less than three minutes later, the familiar quad bike roared onto the beach. Only this time, it wasn’t Sasha riding it—but Ignatov, Denis’s head of security, a bull-necked giant nearly two meters tall.

Sasha—or rather, what was left of him—was thrown at Ella’s feet.

She clapped her hands over her mouth at the sight of the bloody mash—not a man, but a slab of beaten meat.

Denis no longer resembled a mole.

Before her sat a patrician. A Caesar. A ruler—with an icy gaze and a mouth clenched into a hard line.

“God is my witness, I was a good husband. God is my witness, I tried not to believe the vile words of chauvinists and woman-haters. But they were right. The most vile, deceitful creature on this earth—the filthiest, most promiscuous being—is you, women. You don’t need tenderness, compassion, or care. You defile your master’s house and don’t even realize that punishment will follow. You think your master is a fool. Wretched, lustful vermin—are you worthy of love? No. I have only one desire—to crush you like rats.”

Denis nodded to Ignatov.

The brute grabbed Ella and dragged her toward the villa.

“No! Please! Don’t!” she screamed.

But no one heard her screams. And even if someone had—they wouldn’t have dared to make a sound. The master of the empire was known for such ferocity and cruelty that it was better to pretend you heard and saw nothing.

Just a woman. One more, one less. She shouldn’t have betrayed her master. Fool.

The screams soon faded.

The sun sank into the sea.

Night fell on the beach.