"You've probably already seen the small VIP rooms with couches," he reminds me, noticing my gaze wandering across the hall. His tone warms slightly—as if he feels more confident talking about something familiar.
"The bar with lots of alcohol and the huge dance floor. Also, our club can be rented for private events for a set period," he adds, moving to the next point, as if reading from a list. But even behind this dryness, there is restrained pride—as in someone who knows the value of the place they work at and wants it to be appreciated.
"Why?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. A faint bewilderment sparks inside me—who could need an entire club? It seems both strange and intriguing, like a mystery I want to peek into.
"Some clients want to be here one-on-one with the girls," he says a little more quietly, as if afraid someone might overhear. "For example, they dance for them, and then retreat to the rooms on the second floor."
His voice sounds almost apologetic, as if he knows this part of the story could provoke mixed reactions. Yet at the same time, there is practicality in his words—the bare truth of the nightlife industry, without embellishment, yet without excuses.
I nod, suppressing my reaction. Some desires, of course, are peculiar… But from a business standpoint—why not? Considering how much it costs, Maxim clearly doesn't mind. Let people do their thing, as long as there are no scandals and they pay well. Simple: pay—and get what you want. His venue is not a temple of morality, but a working mechanism. And there is honesty in that—no lies, no masks, no pretenses.
"And what else happens here besides private rentals?" I decide to steer the conversation to a more neutral topic. Too much has already been said, and I feel it is time to balance the tone—return to lightness.
"Holidays are celebrated. For example, New Year's, Valentine's Day, and so on. Maxim Alexandrovich tries, together with Alisa, to come up with beautiful decorations for each holiday," he speaks with unexpected warmth in his voice, as if sharing family traditions. It is clear he enjoys being part of it. His tone carries an almost childlike sincerity—as someone who finds his place and takes pride in it. "Besides that, sometimes on these days, entry can be free if you dress a certain way or in the right color."
"What do you mean?" I don't immediately understand, frowning slightly.
"For example, if on Valentine's Day you come in red, entry is free. The same goes if you wear a costume for Halloween. Sometimes we even raffle alcohol among purchased tickets," he explains. "So it's interesting to work here."
I smile—not out of politeness, but with a light, almost childlike surprise. Everything around seems incredibly well thought out: from elegant show details to nearly invisible accents in the decor, from carefully crafted atmosphere to precisely arranged small touches. Nothing seems random here—every movement, every light accent, every note of music is part of the overall design.
This club isn't just a place for parties. It breathes, lives, like an organism where everything is connected and works in sync. It is a system—flexible, precise, multilayered. Beauty and style are just its face. Behind this exterior mask is a complex, pulsating mechanism, woven from ambitions, talents, and possibly secrets.
And now I feel: there is still much for me to learn about this place… and about the people who created it. Those who can turn the night into art, silence into anticipation, movement into magic. Behind the silent glow of the lamps, behind the flickering shadows, behind the sounds of carefully selected music and the faint scent of alcohol, real life is hidden—bright, rich, sometimes contradictory, but all the more genuine because of it.
This is not just a space. It is character. A world that doesn't let just anyone in. And I feel it beginning to unfold before me—slowly, significantly, as if testing whether I am worthy of truly knowing it.
"Have you worked here long?" I ask.
"Not more than a year. I like it here," he answers with a smile, looking off to the side as if lost in memories of how his journey at this place began. There is something warm and sincere in that smile—not flashy, but familiar—simple human contentment. It isn't passion or excitement, but that quiet stability he seems to value and find peace in. A faint calm flickers in his eyes, as if he has finally found his small place in this big world.
"Is Maxim always so cold with the staff?"
"Yes, but we're used to it," he replies, shrugging with a faint grin, as if it is something inevitable, a law of nature one doesn't try to fight. "After all, we're not friends—we just work here for him. The main thing is that neither he nor Alisa scolds us for nothing or fines us like in other places."
There isn't a hint of resentment in his voice, only mature, calm acceptance of the situation. He treats these relationships as a given, without illusions or hope for anything more. Everyone in their place, and it suits everyone just fine.
"How do you know Alisa? I mean, what's she like to you? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone your opinion about her."
I try to make my voice sound soft, almost trusting, as if I am just politely curious. But in reality, every word is hard-earned. Inside me, behind a calm mask, alertness stirs—a thin thread of anxiety, a chill of doubt running down my spine.
I catch his gaze, hoping to see even the slightest reaction, the tiniest flicker of hesitation in his eyes. I want to latch onto something—a word, a gesture, a pause—that will reveal: he feels it too. He sees it too. The other Alisa. Not the perfect, falsely kind, caring version she can play, but the real one—cold, prickly, too precise to be sincere. The one who irritates me not with words, but with looks, gestures, the hidden power she masks behind polite smiles.
I try not to give myself away. I keep my face calm, my voice steady. But inside, everything trembles from tense anticipation. I don't need much—just a hint, just confirmation that I'm not alone in my feelings. That someone else sees what I see.
"I can't say anything bad about her. When it comes to work, she's very strict, just like your guy. But in normal life—she's a simple girl you can have fun with," he answers calmly, without much emotion, as if Alisa is just another part of the scenery, causing neither waves nor storms. It is a quiet acknowledgment, neutral and even, as if he sees her without passions or grievances.
"Thanks for your opinion," I reply, though inside everything tightens, as if my chest constricts with protest.
For me, Alisa is always different—not the one who smiles saccharinely at everyone and plays the perfect friend role. No. She is brazen, shameless, with a sharp smirk and a gaze like a queen among commoners. There is something predatory in her, as if a beast lurks beneath the glossy surface, ready to strike at any moment. She seems the embodiment of falseness, which infuriates me. I shiver at hypocrisy—I feel it in my gut, like a draft at my back. And in Alisa, everything is performative: manners, voice, even her walk—like a rehearsed role, not a real personality. Something dark hides under her mask, and it feels frighteningly real.
And suddenly—almost as if she senses my disgusted gaze or hears the thoughts tearing me apart inside—she appears. As if she deliberately chooses the moment when I am especially vulnerable.
"Look who we have here—the traitor of the year?" Her voice, ringing with predatory mockery, cuts through the silence like a blade. It flies through the air like a slap—cold, sharp, with a taste of disdain. Malicious music reverberates in it, poisonous and sticky, like drops of venom on glass. "And what's that outfit? Going to a runway?"
Alisa slowly strides past, languidly, with the grace of a self-satisfied predator, as if she is walking not on the floor but on a red carpet. Each step is soaked in superiority, her heels striking like hammer blows. Her icy, sharp gaze slides over me from head to toe, probing, turning me inside out. That look makes me want to hide, curl up, disappear—but I stay rooted. I freeze, as if nailed to the spot, but inside, everything boils, like before a storm.
Her voice drips with venomous mockery, a desire to jab at the very wound, to expose my vulnerability in front of everyone, to lay it bare. She enjoys the moment like a cat playing with a caught mouse.
My heart beats faster, dull and desperate, but I don't lower my eyes. I hold back the tremor, gathering all my anger into a fist.
"I didn't have time to change because I had a date with Maxim," I say evenly, almost coldly. My voice sounds calm, but inside everything tightens like a spring ready to snap. I feel anger pulsing through my veins—not fiery, but icy, restrained, precise, like needles."What's the matter, nobody invites you anywhere? That's why you're so upset?"
I throw a verbal jab at her with precise aim, even smirking—acerbic, yet calm, like a professional in a duel who knows exactly when and where to strike. I'm not going to be a target. Let her know: I won't break, I won't bend, and I won't let her enjoy my pain. My voice sounds confident, firm, almost predatory—as someone who has defended themselves before and knows how to do it beautifully. In that moment, strength awakens in me. Not a mask, not a pose—but something deep, steel-like. And she feels it. For a second, her smirk falters, like a gust of wind rocking a marble statue.
"I don't understand what Maxim sees in you," she says, venom in her voice, her eyes flashing with anger and poison. "He's a good man, yet someone like you got in his way. And you still can't leave him alone. Short on money, huh?"
Her words pierce me like icy needles. I feel rage start to ignite inside. My body seems to flare from within—not from shame, no, but from an unstoppable urge to explode, to shout, to fight back. Her venomous speech sets the air between us ablaze, and I feel like I could burn in this duel.
I take a deep breath, suppressing the urge to grab her by the hair. Her words are dirty and sharp, like knives trying to penetrate my heart and break me. But I stand my ground, eyes unflinching.
"You're pathetic! While I was gone, despite all your efforts, he never gave you a chance. Are your feminine charms that bad?" I continue, savoring each word, as if drawing strength from her internal tension.
"You think you can keep him near you for long?" she presses on with a malicious smirk, hatred mixed with envy in her tone. "The only thing keeping him with you is that he has feelings. But the fact that you spread your legs and have a daughter together won't hold him long. Maxim will see who you really are, and he'll leave you. I'm sure—not even a year will pass."
I feel my breath quicken, my heart pound harder, heavier, each beat echoing in my ears. My lungs greedily gulp air, but it feels thick, sticky, like breathing through cotton. My vision blurs for a moment—not too much, but enough to jolt me inwardly. My body seems to stop obeying, and the tension in my chest grows—tight, ringing, almost physical pain.
But I'm still standing. Standing, eyes locked on hers. Burning her with my gaze, as if leaving a mark. I know: if I falter now—even for a fraction of a second—she wins. And I cannot allow that. Not for anything. A hurricane rages inside—quiet, not tearing roofs off, but crushing from within, squeezing ribs, leaving only a tiny island of will. I cling to it like a drowning person to a lifebuoy.
Words stick in my throat, sweat beads on my skin as if my body wants to betray weakness. But I command myself: just a little longer. Just hold on. Don't give in. Even if my fingers tremble betrayingly, even if everything around seems distant, like in an aquarium. My mask stays on my face—calm, even slightly mocking. But inside… inside everything screams.
"Go cry to him some more. How miserable you are that he didn't choose you. Even before me, you had no chance," I hiss, stepping closer, squinting with malice. "— If it weren't for me, he would never have bought this club. See the sign outside—'Rebel Girl'? That's how he calls me. I'm his Rebel Girl. And you? You're nobody to him."
I look at her—closely, almost piercingly—and see only one thing: a person who lost long before this war began. Lost, not to an enemy or circumstances, but to herself. There is no anger, no pain in her gaze—only emptiness, echoes of what she once dreamed of being. She fights desperately, clinging to every detail, every word, every shadow of attention she hasn't had for years.
That is her real weakness. Not the wounds or mistakes, not broken dreams. But this endless, exhausting need to be noticed. And in that lies her tragedy. Quiet, almost invisible, yet so that it makes the heart tighten.