I want to show Alice how Maxim and I look, to rub it in. It's not just a desire — it's a fierce, almost childish thirst for revenge, a sharp urge to show her that I'm no longer the person she remembered so recently. Inside, everything boils with excited impatience, like a fire is raging within me, barely restrained. I feel as if I radiate confidence — with every step, leaving a trail of fire and the scent of victory behind me.
I know our outfits are flawless, as if they stepped right off a runway, designed not just by designers but by fate itself for this evening. He — in a perfect dark suit, with a subtle shimmer of expensive fabric, fitting him as if tailored to his character: restrained, commanding, predatory. Beneath the jacket, a black shirt without a tie, provocatively loose, like his gaze. His image — a mix of icy elegance and hidden fire. Chic, intolerant of fuss.
I — in a black dress, form-fitting yet calm in appearance, but with a deep, bold aura. It moves with me, like a second skin, as if it knows all my intentions. We walk side by side, and in every step, there's something predatory, theatrical, as if performing our own play — without words, but with a clear message: we are dangerous, beautiful, and untouchable.
We look like a couple from a luxury ad: stylish, composed, daring — like we stepped out of a glossy magazine to scorch the night with our shadows. And yet — in this perfect image, there's a flaw. Thin, provocative, deliberate. Like a hint. A challenge. A crack in the glass that only adds value.
There is too much perfection in us to be real. And in this almost cinematic beauty lies the main intrigue: what story hides beneath the smooth surface? Who are we to each other — allies or rivals, attraction or trial? But we know that for each other, we've always been everything, we are now, and we always will be.
The only thing spoiling the picture is our heads, clearly in disarray, as if we rolled out of bed just minutes before leaving. Makeup slightly smudged, hair casually tousled — and all of this gives us a shameless sexuality. There's a particular charm in it. It's not a mistake — it's a statement, almost a scream. We spent the night together, and we make no effort to hide it. This is our challenge, our manifesto. No words are needed — just look at us, and everything is clear.
I enter the club with a feeling of victory over my opponent. As if passing through a triumphal arch, at the heart of which pulses my personal story of triumph. Each step seems to beat the rhythm: "You are no longer in control of me, Alice. Here, I am the one in charge, and Maxim is completely mine." My smile shines like the sun at noon, and my eyes literally sparkle with inner fire. I am at the top, and no one can move me from there. Not her, not her words, not the past.
Rebel Boy, looking at me, only smiles at my fiery desire to fight Alice. His light, almost lazily ironic smirk seems to say: "Why are you doing all this, baby? I'm only yours, always have been. I don't need anyone else, especially that Alice." But I don't care. The main thing — he's beside me. The main thing — he also walks with a smile. And at what exactly — no one could guess. Only I know that this smile hides more than it seems: admiration, complicity, and a recognition that needs no words.
We approach the bar, where the bartender stands. He immediately recognizes Maxim — respect flashes in his eyes, mixed with slight tension, as if in front of him stands not just a client, but someone far more significant. The atmosphere shifts, as if the air grows denser.
"Hello, Maxim Alexandrovich. The venue opens in a couple of hours only," he says formally, as if reporting to his superior.
"I know. Today we're not here for entertainment. I need to check some documents. Is Alice here?" His voice is cold, like a winter wind burning even through warm clothing.
Clear, commanding, without a hint of his previous softness. In an instant, Maxim seems to flip an internal switch — the gentle, warm beloved disappears, giving way to a strict, composed leader radiating icy confidence. You don't argue with him. You obey.
I freeze, listening to him. My heart tightens, like a sudden sting. Something pierces painfully inside — as if an icy wind sweeps over exposed, vulnerable skin. He is distant. No, not completely distant — familiar, terrifyingly recognizable. Before me appears the Maxim I once knew — in a bad sense, Rebel Boy. Hard. Authoritarian. Sharp, like a whip cutting through the air. The one I once ran from, hoping to get back the other — warm, gentle, mine.
And yet, despite the fear, I cannot look away. I am simultaneously repelled and drawn to this new — or rather, old — face of his. He can be different. Flexible, dangerous, like a wild beast ready to strike at any moment. And there is something anxiously beautiful in that. Rebel Boy can defend. Strike first in battle for me, and win. He is power.
But only with me — he becomes different. I know this. I feel it. With me, he is tenderness. He melts into touches, words, kisses. His hands become soft, his voice velvety, his gaze warm, like sunlight at dawn. I know: behind this exterior hardness hides the one who held me at night when I cried. The one who knew my fears and accepted them. And that knowledge — that he can be both — strangely gives me a sense of security. Now Maxim can transform. And in that lies his attraction.
"She's here and waiting for you," the bartender says, trying not to meet his gaze.
"Katrin, wait for me here. You can do whatever your heart desires, order any drinks or food. I'll be gone a short while and return to you, okay, my love?" And again, as if by magic, his voice softens, almost enveloping, like a warm blanket on a winter evening.
This contrast surprises not only me — the guy behind the bar raises his eyebrows in astonishment, as if his world wavers for a second. He clearly didn't expect this — the man who seemed icy suddenly proves warm and alive.
"Okay," I agree, a slight smile on my lips, feeling the pleasure of being his priority. It's like an inner triumph: to be the one for whom a person capable of being a storm becomes spring.
"And you, watch over her. Consider her our VIP guest. Everything she orders — free. If anything happens to her — you're responsible," his words are like a sentence, a predator's sharp gaze, and the bartender flinches.
"Yes, boss," he replies quickly, almost militarily precise.
"Don't get bored," my beloved whispers, leaning closer and kissing me behind the ear — lightly, but enough to send a shiver through me. In that moment, everything disappears. The world collapses into a single point. Only us. Only him and me. And all I feel — is my heart pounding wildly.
Maxim goes in a direction known only to him, leaving me alone with this guy. In his departure, there is confidence, like a man who knows everything is going according to plan. He doesn't look back — and I like that. He knows I'll wait.
"Excuse me, miss, can I help you with something?" the bartender asks politely, a little awkwardly, as if he still can't believe what he just saw.
"Call me just Katrin," I request, trying to add warmth to my voice. I don't want to be "Maxim's girl" here. I want to be myself. The mistress of myself.
"Should I look around?" I ask hesitantly, glancing around.
The space feels foreign, unfamiliar. Though I've been here before, it was a completely different night — late, noisy, intoxicated with lights and sounds. The crowd, dense and inseparable, moved to the rhythm of the beat, music pounding into the chest, vibrating on the skin like a second heartbeat. Everything seemed alive, daring, uncontrollable.
And now… now the club seems to have lost its mask. It is quiet, almost empty, like an actor after a performance — in the dressing room, under cold light, without an audience or applause. Light falls dimly on the floor, highlighting the bar with unwashed glasses, the dance floor orphaned without music, and mirrored walls reflecting only emptiness. The space breathes silence, and in it is a strange vulnerability.
I walk forward, feeling the floor spring softly under my heels. The air smells of alcohol, tobacco, and something sweetly cloying — perfumes already faded but still clinging to furniture like shadows of the night. The place that recently pulsed with life now looks almost abandoned — and it unsettles me. As if I've stepped behind the scenes of someone's bright lie.
And yet, in this silence, there's something captivating. Something that makes you look deeper — beyond the outer gloss, beyond the noise and masks. The club is different. Real. Without loud music, without bright faces. And in this reality — it awakens a shiver through the body.
"Yes, of course. Would you like me to give you a tour?" he offers kindly, already a little more relaxed, trying to show himself in the best light.
I hesitate, but the desire to feel in control wins out.
"I wouldn't mind. Tell me what's here and how it works. I don't know anything about this club, so you can take me on a tour from the very beginning, as if I'm a newcomer," I say, straightening my shoulders.
"Absolutely, I'd be glad to," he says enthusiastically. "This place is one of the most popular in the city. And I'm not just saying that because I work here. It's in the top three most popular venues of the year—specifically in the club category." His voice gains confidence, pride in the work he's part of. He steps out from behind the counter and stands beside me, keeping a distance—respectful, professional.
I walk alongside him, listening, and suddenly I feel the club's walls fill with breath, voices, and shadows of stories. He no longer seems hostile. This is a place where change can happen. And maybe one of those changes is happening right now.
"As far as I know, this place is almost two years old," he says thoughtfully, glancing around as if remembering how it all began.
His voice carries uncertainty, as if he's trying to reconstruct the chronology in his mind, but also a warm pride—as if he himself, even just on the edge, is part of this story. The memories lightly touch his consciousness, causing a faint smile and a shadow of nostalgia in his eyes—barely noticeable, but real.
"Who is it meant for?" I ask with mild curiosity, as if casually, but inside me a restless desire already stirs to uncover all the secrets of this place. I feel drawn to know more—not just idle curiosity, but a real attraction to the hidden facets of a venue that seems to hold much more than it shows at first glance.
"Young people. Also, there are pole dancing sessions," he answers, lowering his voice slightly, as if talking about something completely ordinary. But I catch that awkward embarrassment in his gaze that newcomers show when they're just starting to get used to the frank atmosphere of such venues. His eyebrows twitch slightly, and his eyes flicker for a split second, as if seeking escape in the dim shadows of the room.
"A pole? I didn't see one last time I was here," I frown slightly, checking whether he's mistaken. There's a hint of surprise in my voice, and a spark of interest inside me—as if a curtain has suddenly lifted on another side of this mysterious space.
"It can be installed on the stage, or it can be removed. There are also rooms on the second floor with a pole already set up, for those who enjoy such… um… activities," he explains uncertainly, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding direct eye contact. His embarrassment is almost endearing, as if apologizing for having to speak about something intimate, but still obliged—because it's part of the job.
I nod, remembering that I had indeed heard about removable poles. It's convenient—when needed, set it up; when not, take it down. A simple but effective system. Attach the pins—done. Remove them—the stage is free again. Practical and functional, especially for a place where flexibility and the ability to quickly change the atmosphere matter. And there is beauty in that—in the ability to transform instantly, adapting to the audience's desires.