Alexey Smirnov rubbed his temples, staring wearily at yet another message from his mother.
This time, it was a photo of a cheerful young woman with the caption: “Inna’s friend’s daughter. Economist. 29.”
He sighed deeply. That made it the seventh “ideal match” his mother had sent him in just one month.
At 35, Alexey had built a thriving business, owned a spacious apartment downtown, and had a cozy house in the countryside. Yet, personal happiness seemed to elude him, not from lack of effort, but from disillusionment.
His ex-fiancée, Victoria, had only been interested in his wealth. After her betrayal, he had lost all faith in genuine love.
A new message popped up:
“Your father and I are visiting on Saturday. You’ll meet Elizaveta.”
Rolling down his car window, Alexey let the cool rain-scented air into the vehicle. As he drove through the glistening city streets, a disheveled man suddenly stepped in front of his car.
“Please… some help… I haven’t eaten,” the man croaked, tapping the window.
Alexey reached for his wallet but realized he had almost no cash left.
Up ahead was an underground walkway with an ATM. Remembering he’d topped up his card that morning, Alexey decided to withdraw some money.
As he descended the stairs, shielding himself from the rain, he noticed a woman sitting quietly near the exit.
She wore a worn coat, and beside her sat a little boy, maybe four years old, fair-haired and serious.
Spread out in front of them were handmade postcards in plastic sleeves. She wasn’t begging—she was offering.
Waiting at the ATM, a spontaneous idea hit Alexey—irrational, but oddly fitting. Pocketing the money, he approached.
“Excuse me, may I talk to you?” he asked.
The woman looked up. Her eyes, though cautious, held a quiet strength.
“We’re not asking for handouts,” she said calmly. “We’re selling postcards.”
“My name is Alexey,” he introduced himself. “Let’s talk in the café across the street. It’s warm. I have a business proposal.”
“We’re not interested in anything strange,” she replied, drawing her son closer.
“It’s a job,” he clarified quickly. “A well-paying one. Just hear me out.”
Her wariness didn’t fade, but his sincerity gave her pause.
“Kirill, want some hot tea?” she asked. The boy nodded.
“I’m Marina. You’ve got ten minutes.”
When Alexey explained his proposal—that she and her son pretend to be his family for the weekend to deter his matchmaking parents—Marina stared at him as if he were insane.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Fifty thousand rubles and two months in my country house. You’ll have time to find your footing.”
Marina clutched her cup tightly.
“Why?”
“So they’ll stop forcing brides on me. If they think I’m settled, they’ll back off.”
She glanced at her son, who was happily drawing.
“We don’t have the clothes for a place like yours.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Come on. You don’t want to sleep in the subway again, do you?”
Her eyes flashed.
“We never sleep there. We had to leave our room unexpectedly.”
“From whom?” he asked.
“That’s not part of our deal.”
The country home welcomed them with warmth and silence. Marina, now in a beautiful but unfamiliar dress, looked uneasy. Kirill, dressed in new clothes, was overjoyed.
“My parents will be here in an hour,” Alexey said, handing Marina a file. “We met at a modern art exhibit a year ago, and got married six months back. Kirill’s from your previous marriage. I plan to adopt him.”
She skimmed the documents.
“You’re scarily organized for someone with a crazy plan.”
“In business, there’s no other way,” he smiled.
Car tires crunched outside. They were early.
“Ready?” he asked.
She took a deep breath.
“Kirill, come here! Grandma and Grandpa are here!”
Irina Smirnova, energetic and sharp-eyed, hugged Marina enthusiastically.
“At last! I thought we’d never meet you!”
Victor, tall and dignified, shook Alexey’s hand with approval.
“Well done, Lesha. Family is everything.”
At dinner, Marina remained composed, sticking to their script. But when art came up, her eyes lit up.
“Do you draw?” Irina asked.
“I studied at the academy,” she admitted, then hesitated.
Alexey looked up, surprised. That hadn’t been part of their cover.
“Show us something,” Irina requested.
“I don’t have anything here,” Marina replied nervously.
“Mom draws princesses and dragons!” Kirill chimed in. “Even dad!”
“Dad?” Victor raised a brow.
“Alexey,” Marina explained quickly. “Kirill’s used to calling him that.”
Alexey took her hand, genuinely.
“We are a family,” he said quietly.
That night, they stood on the terrace.
“You were great,” Alexey said. “They believed you.”
“Your mother is kind,” Marina replied. “Even if we lied.”
“Why hide your art?”
She turned toward him, face lit by moonlight.
“My ex is powerful. When I left him, he threatened to take Kirill. I ran.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because I’m scared he’ll find us. You might get dragged in.”
“What’s his name?” Alexey asked gently.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll leave tomorrow. Thanks for helping.”
“No. Stay. I can protect you.”
She gave a faint smile.
“You don’t know who you’re up against.”
“You. A mother selling postcards for her son,” he said. “That’s enough.”
The next day, Irina found Marina’s sketchbook—portraits of Kirill, and one of Alexey.
“These are beautiful,” she said. “Why not paint professionally?”
“I can’t use my name,” Marina murmured.
“Because of your ex?” Irina guessed.
“You know?”
“More than you think, dear,” she said gently.
Later, Alexey caught Marina on his computer.
“Checking up on me?” he asked.
“I needed to know if I could trust you. You’re honest. You help people.”
He laughed.
“Leonid Kraynev?” she nodded.
“We’re signing a deal next month,” he said, alarmed.
“Now do you see why we must go?”
“No. I’ll cancel it.”
“That’s millions!”
“You matter more,” he said softly. “I want to know you—truly.”
A week later, Leonid arrived.
“Where’s my wife?” he demanded.
“She’s not here,” Alexey replied coolly. “She’s your ex. I have proof of your threats.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’m not. Want to test me?”
Leonid left, shaken.
Back inside, Marina waited anxiously.
“He’s gone,” Alexey said.
“We’ll leave now. The contract’s void.”
“No. Stay. Not for the deal—for us.”
“Why?”
“Because I think of you every morning. Because Kirill makes this place home. Because you made me believe in love again.”
“But it was fake…”
“It became real,” he said, holding her hands. “I love you.”
A month later, the Smirnovs visited again. At dinner, Victor raised his glass.
“To family—and to the little lies that lead to real joy.”
Marina’s eyes widened.
“You knew?”
“Of course,” Irina chuckled. “But love is real. We saw that.”
Kirill tugged Alexey’s sleeve.
“Will you be my real dad?”
Alexey turned to Marina. She nodded, eyes glistening.
“I will, son,” Alexey said. “For real.”
