The Angel Club again.
It unsettles.
It promises.
It judges.
The flickering lights slice the space into shards—red, violet, icy blue. The dance floor is packed with bodies: gleaming skin, bare shoulders, laughter too loud to be sincere. In the private booths—leather sofas, expensive watches, predatory eyes. This place is always hunting. And someone is always prey.
And here I am.
Victoria Montrey.
My second time in this place—and for some reason it feels like they're looking at me differently now.
I feel it on my skin.
Beside me is Christian Grayson.
Calm. Collected. Too confident for this chaos. He sits back as if the club belongs to him, not the other way around. His shoulder is close to mine. Too close. Or not close enough?
I catch his gaze.
He catches mine.
My heart skips an extra beat. I look away at once—toward the dance floor, other bodies, anything at all, just not to give myself away.
"Let's dance," I say casually.
Inside me—a challenge.
And hope. Foolish, sweet, dangerous hope.
He smirks, tilting his head slightly.
"I remember how you dance. Next to you I'll look like a clumsy bear."
"Don't worry," I reply, leaning closer so he feels my voice on his skin. "I'll simplify the moves. I'll sync to you."
And to your breathing too, I add silently—and instantly get angry at myself for the thought.
I almost touch his hand…
And that's when they appear.
Two girls.
Tall, glossy, certain they have the right to take whatever they want. They materialize as if they've always been here. They don't even look at me—as if I'm part of the décor. One sits far too close to Christian; the other practically collapses onto his shoulder.
"Hi, sweetheart," one purrs.
My smile freezes.
Something hot and sharp flares in my chest—unpleasantly familiar.
Seriously? Just like that?
Christian knows them. I see it instantly.
He smiles—calm, cynical. He doesn't push them away. Doesn't pull them closer. He simply allows it.
And that is what irritates me most.
Jealousy surges suddenly, like a wave knocking me off my feet. I feel my fingers tense, a hard line forming along my spine.
"What makes you think you can barge in like this?" My voice sounds even, but inside it trembles.
The girls finally look at me.
Then at Christian.
A pause.
"So what is she—your new girlfriend?" one asks with lazy curiosity.
Christian smiles.
But says nothing.
Oh. So that's how it is.
I don't wait another second.
"Christian came with me," I say clearly, sharply. "And no one invited you. So go dance and stop interfering with our evening."
And yes—I do it.
I press against him deliberately. I feel the heat of his body, the tension beneath his skin. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. I'm going all in, and I know it perfectly well.
Christian looks at me.
Surprised.
Attentive.
And then—he plays along.
"Yes, girls," he says calmly. "We're waiting for Andre and Sophia. We're having a… family celebration."
Family?!
Something inside me snorts with sarcastic laughter, but my face remains composed.
The girls stand.
"So you're the family type now," one sneers.
"Remember, sweetheart," the other adds, leaning closer to Christian and casually gesturing toward me, "when you get tired of this one, you'll always find comfort in my arms."
An air kiss.
And they leave—graceful, provocative, trailing perfume and irritation behind them.
I feel fury boiling inside me.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Dangerous.
I look at Christian.
He looks at me.
Between us—the tension, dense and stretched tight.
You think I'll back down?
You think I can't handle this?
No.
I understand—making him mine will be difficult.
Very difficult.
And that is exactly why I want to try even more.
I smile.
Genuinely.
And I know exactly how to play my role.
**
I am riding in a red convertible beside Andre Cortland—my fiancé, if you believe the press, the contracts, and his mother. The night is thick as wine. Santerra glows with neon and advertising, as if the city itself is trying to distract me from my thoughts. The wind plays with my hair, chills my collarbones. I catch myself watching not the road, but Andre's hands—confident, steady, too confident. He drives fast, focused, like a racer heading for the finish line. And like a man who knows exactly where he is going.
And to whom, my inner voice adds—sharp, observant, merciless.
"You're quiet tonight," Andre says without taking his eyes off the road.
"I'm enjoying the night," I smile. The smile comes out perfect. Measured. Exactly the one expected of me.
And there it is. Club Angel. An angel with wings of light above the entrance, a red carpet, a line of beautiful people desperate to get inside—as if heaven itself has a guest list. So this is where my Andre "relaxes." Where he "just has a drink with friends." The thought flashes and scratches. Fine. Let's see which angels are keeping him company.
Andre steps out first and offers me his hand. I take it slowly, with dignity. Let them see—I am not just another girl. We walk the carpet. Security parts. I feel the looks—measuring, slick, indifferent. I've been here before. And even then I understood: this place does not love those who are willing to be background.
And I, Sofia Blackmore, have never been background.
Inside, the club breathes bass. Flickering lights, leather booths, the scent of expensive perfume and promises. Beauties everywhere—long legs, short dresses, eyes trained to hit their target. For a second, doubt stirs in me. Then anger. Then excitement.
"Christian!" Andre calls out brightly.
They shake hands—firm, masculine. I lift my gaze and see him. Christian Grayson. Calm. Dangerous. Wearing that smile that promises nothing—and that's exactly why it irritates me.
"Victoria," Andre says, too warmly.
Too warm.
I follow his gaze—and see her. Victoria Montrey. Beautiful. Damn it, beautiful. Not flashy. Not loud. Exactly the kind men remember. And I see the light in Andre's eyes. Not the look of a fiancé. The look of a hunter.
So that's her, I think, exhaling. The stray with an angel's face.
"Sofia Blackmore," I say, extending my hand. Slowly. Precisely.
"Victoria Montrey," she replies. Her grip is firm. Not weak. I note it—with irritation.
Drinks arrive—cold glasses, fruit, nuts, cheese. Everything perfect. Too perfect for the tension hanging between us.
"To your beautiful union," Christian suddenly says, raising a glass of something non-alcoholic.
Andre flinches—just a fraction. I notice. Of course I do. And still I smile—wide, sincere, almost happy.
"Thank you," I say. "That's… very sweet."
Remember this moment, Andre. You agreed to it yourself.
The music swells. The dance floor beckons like a challenge.
"Let's dance," Victoria says before anyone can object.
And without waiting, she takes Christian by the hand.
His fingers are warm, confident. He's surprised—just for a heartbeat. That's enough to make me smile.
The dance floor swallows us in flashes of light. I move close—too close—feeling the rhythm under my skin. This is my battlefield. Words don't matter here. Only breath. Eye contact. Distance that collapses and disappears again.
Christian looks at me differently now. Not the way he looks at the other girls.
After this dance, I promise myself, sliding my palm along his shoulder, you'll look only at me—Victoria Montrey.
The music cuts off on a sharp chord.
I lift my eyes—and see Andre and Sofia.
They are watching us.
In his gaze—interest in me.
In Sofia's—anger.
I don't care.
Christian is beside me now.
And he is mine.