I’ll marry the first woman I meet. A wealthy bachelor picked up a stranger with scars by the highway
Maxim Artemyev adored his balcony. Especially on Friday mornings, when the city was still slowly digesting the last hours of the workweek, and he was already free — a successful head of a bank department who had been the first to slip away from the weekday bustle, eagerly anticipating the long-awaited weekend.
The air smelled of ozone after the night rain and the sweet pollen of blooming lindens. Maxim took a sip of his cooling coffee and glanced at the corner of the balcony where his fishing gear stood neatly. A new spinning rod, a shiny reel, a box filled with lures of all shapes and colors — a fisherman’s pride, almost like a collection of rare wines.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was his mother calling.
“Hi, Mom,” he answered with a smile.
“Maximushka, will you drop by? I baked some pies — your favorites.”
“Of course, I’ll stop by. Just for a bit — the guys are waiting at the dacha by the lake.”
“Fishing again?” His mother’s voice held a mix of concern and gentle reproach. “Maybe bring a girlfriend along? You’re thirty-two now!”
“Well, Mom, we talked about this. As soon as I find someone — I’ll introduce her. Okay, love you, I’ll be there soon.”
He hung up and exhaled thoughtfully. This “fishing” wasn’t just a pastime — it was their sacred tradition. Pavel’s dacha, barbecue, sauna, campfire, and endless men’s talk. Pavel and Grisha, his longtime friends from university days, already had families: one had a daughter growing up, the other was expecting a child. And every time they met, they teased Maxim:
“So, the last bachelor of the bastion — ready to surrender?”
“Our eagle’s still fighting off the chains of family life,” Pavel laughed, patting him on the shoulder.
Maxim just smiled in response. He wasn’t fighting. He was waiting.
“I’ll marry only for true love,” he said seriously as the car left the city behind. “The moment I understand — that’s her. The one. The only one. The one I want to be one with, to breathe in unison.”
“Oh, Max, you’re such a romantic,” Grisha drawled from the back seat. “That only happens in girls’ books. Real princesses don’t exist.”
“But I believe they do,” Maxim replied firmly, watching the road stretch away.
At the dacha, after the sauna and the first barbecue, the conversation picked up again. Girls from neighboring plots kept walking by, throwing playful glances at the three friends.
“Let’s test your theory of ‘fate’ in practice?” Pavel suggested slyly. “Let’s play a staring contest: whoever blinks or looks away first loses.”
“And what’s the bet?” Maxim accepted the challenge willingly.
“The loser has to go to the highway and propose to the first woman he meets. Right there.”
Confident, Maxim agreed. But maybe the beer hit his head or the sun played a cruel trick — he lost. When a tall blonde woman passed by, he caught her gaze, smiled involuntarily, and then looked away. The friends howled with delight.
A man’s word is his bond. Half an hour later, they were driving on the highway. Maxim’s heart pounded with a mix of shame and wild excitement. A few kilometers from the dacha, they spotted a solitary figure at a table with greens and berries. A short woman in a cotton dress, her headscarf tied tightly so her face was barely visible.
“Well, groom, go for it!” his friends nudged him.
Maxim got out and approached. The woman looked up at him — frightened but clear, strikingly blue eyes. He noticed her hands were covered with burn scars. Without a word, she took out a notebook and pencil and handed them to him.
“What do you want?” was written in neat handwriting.
Maxim hesitated. All his rehearsed words vanished. Before him sat a fragile, silent woman, and he felt like the worst scoundrel.
“Sorry… This is a stupid bet. My friends and I wanted to see how much a person could lose their mind. And now I need to… propose to you.”
He expected anything: anger, mockery, even contempt. But the woman only paused for a second, then slowly nodded. Maxim couldn’t believe his eyes. She tore a page from the notebook and handed it to him. On it was an address.
The next day, tormented by conscience, Maxim went to the given address. He found a small house on the edge of the village — neat, with geraniums in the windows and lush peonies by the fence. On the bench by the gate sat a woman with a stern but kind face.
“Are you here for Vera?” she asked without unnecessary words.
“Yes. Maxim.”
“I’m Galina Sergeyevna, her grandmother. And what are your intentions?”
Maxim lowered his eyes.
“I acted like an idiot. It was a foolish bet. I wanted to explain…”
Galina Sergeyevna sighed.
“City folk… For you it’s a game. But her life isn’t sweet. Did you see her hands? That’s from a fire. Her parents died back then, and I pulled Vera out of the flames. Her face was hurt too… She lost her voice from the shock. Since then, she doesn’t speak — only writes.”
At that moment Vera came out of the house. Seeing Maxim, she stopped, clutching the notebook to her chest.
“I came to apologize,” he said, looking straight into her blue eyes. “And to say that if you haven’t changed your mind… I agree. The marriage will be a sham, of course. We’ll register it, live together a little, then divorce. But I’ll help as much as I can — financially, in every way.”
He didn’t even understand why it mattered so much. Something about her silence, her strength and fragility at the same time, touched him deeply.
Vera quickly wrote something in the notebook and showed it to her grandmother. She read it for a long time, then looked at her granddaughter, then at Maxim.
“Well… If that’s her decision. Only one condition, dear: don’t hurt her. She’s my only one. Hurt her — you’ll pay.”
The registration went quickly. Maxim organized everything precisely and efficiently, like at work. He picked up Vera and her grandmother from the village. Only four people were at the registry office: the newlyweds and two friends, Pavel and Grisha, who still couldn’t believe what was happening.
Vera wore a simple but elegant cream dress. A veil pinned to a small hat covered her face. This mystery gave her a special, tender beauty. When the registrar pronounced them husband and wife, Maxim, caught up in a sudden impulse, lifted the veil’s edge and touched her lips with his.
He felt her shiver. And at that moment felt a strange, aching feeling inside — not just pity, but a kind of tenderness he hadn’t expected to feel.
After the ceremony, they simply returned to Galina Sergeyevna’s, where simple country food awaited them — potatoes with mushrooms, fresh vegetables. That dinner held more warmth than all the restaurants Maxim had ever been to.
As the evening drew to a close and it was time to leave, Vera looked at him. For the first time, he saw her true smile — not with her lips, but with her eyes. They shone with such warmth and gratitude that it took his breath away.
And suddenly he realized: he didn’t want to leave. His sham wife was becoming more precious to him than he had imagined.
Back in his quiet, almost lifeless apartment, Maxim couldn’t sleep. He paced around the room as if trying to break free from the closed circle of his thoughts. His head buzzed with memories — of the chance meeting on the highway, of the paper with the short note “I agree,” of her frightened gaze and his foolish, childish promise.
Embarrassment, shame, pity, and some strange, unclear attachment intertwined in his soul. He felt lost, as if someone had turned a page in his life without asking permission.
In the morning he decided: he needed to tell someone. So he went to his mother.
Nadezhda Petrovna, a doctor through and through, knew how to listen so that even the most intimate words found space in her presence. She didn’t interrupt or judge, just sat quietly while Maxim told everything — haltingly, mixing up details, but honestly.
“Mom, what should I do?” he finally asked, his voice trembling.
“What is there to do, son?” she answered softly. “You stirred this mess. You took responsibility for a living person, for a girl life hasn’t spared. You acted like a boy… now be a man.”
She came over, put her hand on his shoulder. Not harshly, but firmly.
“Conscience is not a toy, Maxim. You can’t run away from it. You gave her hope. And now what — will you leave her there, all alone?”
Maxim lowered his head.
“Go. Take your wife.”
Those words became his point of no return. He understood: his mother was right. That same day, he returned to the village. Convincing Galina Sergeyevna didn’t take long — she saw the glow in her granddaughter’s eyes every time Vera saw Maxim.
When they were alone so Vera could pack her few belongings, something unexpected happened. The girl slowly approached him, hesitated as if gathering courage, then took off her headscarf. Then she unbuttoned several buttons on her blouse.
Maxim froze. Before him were scars — terrible, red, winding across her neck and cheek. Vera looked at him with pain and fear — afraid to see disgust.
But he didn’t look away. He stepped forward, very carefully kissed Vera’s forehead, right above the scar. It was the first real moment of trust between them. Vera closed her eyes, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.
Vera’s meeting with Nadezhda Petrovna was warm and sincere. Maxim’s mother embraced the girl like her own, looked into her eyes, and said:
“It’s okay, dear. We will manage. The scars will fade, I will find the best specialists. And you will speak again. I believe in this.”
That night they dined together in Maxim’s apartment. He watched Vera shyly but happily smile at his mother and understood: it was the first time in many years she felt part of a family. And he had created that family for her.
Months of treatment began. Nadezhda Petrovna kept her word: the best doctors, modern procedures, therapy. Maxim took Vera to every consultation, sat with her in clinics, held her hand when she was in pain or scared. He became patient, attentive, caring — a completely different man.
The scars gradually lightened, her skin softened, and Vera grew ever more beautiful. But her voice returned slowly. The fear she had held inside for many years did not let go easily. She still communicated through her notebook.
However, their life was filled with new meanings. Every weekend they visited Galina Sergeyevna. The grandmother saw how her granddaughter blossomed and finally accepted Maxim as family. They worked together in the garden, drank tea on the veranda, made plans. Vera, leaning on his shoulder, listened to their conversations and smiled — happily, truly.
One day in the park, they met Pavel and Grisha. They were amazed.
“Is that really Vera?” Pavel couldn’t believe it.
“Yes,” Maxim smiled, hugging her. “My wife.”
Grisha whistled.
“Wow… That’s a transformation.”
“This isn’t a sham,” Maxim added quietly. “This is love.”
Pavel’s wife handed her baby to Vera. At first, she recoiled, but then, encouraged by Maxim, cautiously took the child. Such deep, untapped love sparked in her eyes that Maxim’s heart tightened.
And in that moment he realized: he wanted her to hold their child in her arms.
Time flew. And then — the long-awaited event: Vera became pregnant. Those nine months were their happiest time.
The labor began at night. Maxim fussed, helped, trying not to show his anxiety. And then a miracle happened: Vera, who hadn’t spoken for years, suddenly screamed in pain. And in that cry was not only pain — but awakening, liberation.
“Ma-ma!” she cried out.
She listened to her voice, then screamed again — this time with joy. She could speak. She was whole again.
A few hours later, their son was born. Small, crying, perfectly alive. When Maxim heard her voice on the phone:
“Max… We have a son. I… I love you…”
He stood in the hospital corridor and couldn’t hold back tears. It was the happiest day of his life.
A year passed. A quiet evening. Little Artyom slept in the nursery. In the kitchen, Vera, now speaking freely, laughed and told stories. Nadezhda Petrovna and Galina Sergeyevna knitted booties. Maxim stepped out onto the balcony — the very one where it all began.
He looked at the city lights and thought about how unpredictable fate is. He sought perfect love in romantic stories but found it in a silent girl with scars on her hands. He journeyed from shame to responsibility, from duty to true love.
Vera came up behind him and hugged him.
“What are you doing here alone?”
“Thinking…” he smiled, turning and kissing her. “About how lucky I am.”
He looked into her shining eyes and understood: fairy-tale love really does exist. But to find your fairy, sometimes you first have to become a real prince — not because you’re handsome, but because you’re ready to stand by her when the pain outweighs the joy.
And he became that prince.