The private box at the Angel club is steeped in soft half-light.
The couch beneath me springs and wraps around my body like an expensive trap. The cold glass presses against my fingers, champagne bubbles tease my lips, but the taste… is empty. Everything tonight feels empty.
Below, the dance floor lives its own life.
Girls dance as if each one is certain all eyes are on her. Long legs, fluid hips, skin gleaming under the spotlights. They don't just move—they invite. Promise. Hint.
To rich men. Men like us.
Christian lounges beside me—confident, relaxed, far too pleased with himself. His jacket is unbuttoned, his arm draped over the back of the couch, as if the entire club is his private living room.
But my mind is somewhere else entirely.
Isabella rises in front of my eyes.
Her laugh.
The way she tilted her head just a little when she lied—to me or to herself, I never quite knew.
And that sweet, aching feeling, like someone pressing a thumb straight into my chest.
"I keep thinking about her," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "I want to be with her."
I turn to Christian.
"What did you do to Isabella?"
He turns his head slowly. Surprised? A little. Annoyed? More than that.
There's a warning in his eyes.
"We had a deal," he says calmly. "You don't bring her up."
He nods toward the dance floor.
"Look down there, Andre. Dozens of free, beautiful girls. Any one of them can be yours."
Any one.
The word rings false.
"I want to know she's okay," I insist. My voice betrays me, rough and tight.
Christian takes a sip of champagne, as if he's about to tell a joke.
"She found someone else," he says casually.
A pause.
"Older than you. Almost sixty."
He smirks.
"But the money's his. Not his father's."
The world tilts slightly.
"You seriously expect me to believe that?" Heat surges up inside me. "That she left me for an old man?"
Christian shrugs.
"Get a grip, Andre. She's young, beautiful, ambitious."
He studies me closely, almost cruelly.
"She tried it with you. It didn't work. Your parents aren't the right level."
Why waste her youth on a ghost of a chance when someone else gives her everything at once?
Each word lands like a slap.
"That's bullshit," I snap, shaking my head. "And you know what's worse? It's insulting."
I turn away, my jaw clenching with anger.
Damn it…
I want to leave. Or smash my glass. Or do something stupid.
Christian suddenly smiles—lazy, predatory.
"Then just look at the floor," he says more softly. "Pick yourself a new one."
Reluctantly, I lift my eyes.
And at that moment, the crowd parts.
The music seems to shift—deeper, slower.
At the center of the dance floor—her.
Slim.
In a gown that moves with her as if it's alive.
Aristocratic posture, fluid, precise movements.
A face pure, almost innocent—and fire in her eyes.
She isn't dancing for everyone.
She dances like someone who knows her worth.
I freeze.
And out of the corner of my eye, I see that Christian has stopped breathing too.
What the hell…
"What is it, my friend?" I ask quietly, never taking my eyes off her.
"Are we… rivals now?"
The thought chills me more than the truth about Isabella ever could.
Because if he's looking at her the way I am—
then this night will not end the way we planned.
And somewhere deep inside, I already know:
one of us is going to lose.
**
I am Victoria Montrey, and I step onto the dance floor.
For a moment, the world contracts into a single breath.
Deep. Slow.
The way my mother taught me before every performance.
Breathe. Feel the floor. Feel yourself.
The music pulses somewhere in my chest, and I catch the rhythm not with my ears, but with my body.
I begin carefully, without sweep or bravado, almost modestly. It's crowded here—other bodies, other movements. I don't want to brush against anyone.
But my muscles are already awake.
Every joint knows what to do.
The body remembers what the mind tried to forget.
Smooth steps.
Synchronized, precise.
The movements fold into complex combinations—the kind only those know who spent eight years rising at the barre, falling, getting back up, enduring pain, and moving forward again.
I widen the amplitude. Just a little.
I taste the space.
A turn.
Another.
A fast spin in place—and the skirt of my dress softly gathers the air.
That's when I notice the first thing:
the looks.
At first cautious. Then hungry.
People begin to step back, giving me room.
The crowd parts almost on its own, and I find myself at the center—like a ballerina beneath the spotlights.
The music leads me.
I open myself to it.
Some stop dancing altogether.
Someone raises a phone, then lowers it—unwilling to break the moment.
I feel it on my skin: the attention, the tension, the silence between the beats.
Final steps.
The last turn—and the slit of my dress opens, revealing my right leg, the lace garter at my thigh.
I freeze.
And the room erupts in applause.
Loud. Real.
My breath catches.
If only my mother could see me…
Madeleine Montrey would smile.
And damn it, she would be proud of me.
I return to the table, still feeling my body hum with movement.
"You were incredible!" Giselle shouts, jumping up and wrapping me in a hug. "I had no idea you could dance like that!"
Alex and Finn are sitting there, having completely forgotten how to close their mouths.
Absolutely.
Hopelessly.
Giselle and I exchange a glance—and start laughing, almost in unison, right in their faces.
It feels good. Too good.
I sink onto the soft couch, letting my body rest.
And then Alex moves closer. Too close.
His thigh brushes mine.
Casually.
But I feel it.
He hands me a flute with a non-alcoholic cocktail and keeps staring at me as if he's afraid I might vanish.
Say something, I think. Come on.
"You… you dance beautifully," he finally exhales.
And in his voice—almost a confession.
And that…
That feels like a bucket of cold water.
No.
I need a hero.
Strong. Untamed.
Not a devoted puppy with worship in his eyes.
But I don't say that out loud.
Instead, I smile sweetly, lean in, and thank him—pressing my chest against his shoulder.
Just enough for him to feel it.
And freeze.
He blushes. Actually blushes.
And goes so still it's suspicious, and I barely hold back a laugh.
And at that very moment—
A waiter approaches us.
He sets flowers on the table. A large, expensive bouquet.
"You're invited to join those gentlemen at their table," he says with a polite smile. "They'd like to thank you for the wonderful dance."
I lift my eyes.
Alex and Finn tense.
Their gazes darken.
Something very much like jealousy flashes in them.
And me…
I feel a spark ignite inside.
No, boys.
This is only the beginning.
I look at the flowers. Then toward the unfamiliar men.
And I smile.
Because the evening is just getting started.
And the most interesting things are always still ahead.