The Gold I Married

Chapter Thirteen

The neon lights of the club pulsed in sharp bursts, washing the entrance in electric color, and even from outside, the bass was relentless—vibrating through the pavement and into Victor's chest with a steady, insistent thrum. The line moved quickly, bodies slipping past the velvet rope in a blur of perfume, laughter, and impatience, and just as they reached the front, a bouncer stepped forward with one hand raised.

"ID."

Victor froze. He glanced at Anna, then back at the bouncer, and finally leaned in slightly, tugging at her sleeve. "Miss Anna..." he muttered.

She turned, already irritated. "What now? Just show him your ID."

"That's the problem," he said under his breath. "I don't have it."

Anna blinked at him slowly, as if her brain needed an extra moment to process the words. "What do you mean you don't have it? I thought you had a fake."

Victor shrugged, entirely unapologetic. "I didn't think we'd end up here tonight."

She exhaled sharply, her patience thinning—but then something shifted in her expression, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth that was not remotely kind. She turned back to the bouncer, her entire demeanor softening in an instant, honey where there had been vinegar. "I'm so sorry," she said sweetly. "My boyfriend forgot his ID at home."

The bouncer didn't look convinced. "Ma'am, policy—"

Anna leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial, as if she were letting him in on a delicious secret. "I have a thing for younger men," she murmured. "He looks young, I know... but he's mine."

Victor choked on air. Before he could react, her arm slid around his waist and she pressed a quick, claiming kiss to his cheek.

The bouncer hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, his eyes flicking between them as if searching for the punchline to a joke he didn't want to understand. Then he sighed, the sound of a man choosing the path of least resistance. "...Fine. Go ahead."

Anna beamed, all teeth and triumph. "Thank you." She grabbed Victor's hand and pulled him inside before the man could change his mind.



The music hit them instantly—heavy, loud, and utterly consuming. Lights strobed across the packed dance floor where bodies moved in sync with the rhythm, lost in it, and the air was thick with perfume, alcohol, and the damp heat of too many people in too small a space. Anna didn't hesitate; she moved through it like she belonged there, her heels sharp against the polished floor as she made her way toward the VIP section with the confidence of someone who had never once doubted her right to occupy any room she entered. Victor followed, already feeling out of place, a shadow trailing after light.

At the bar, she ordered a drink without so much as a glance at the bartender, and then, casually, as if commenting on the weather: "Don't serve him anything alcoholic," she said, gesturing toward Victor.

He frowned, stung by the dismissal. "I'm not a kid."

"You act like one."

There was a hint of amusement in her voice, but no room for argument, and Victor slumped into a chair, watching as she downed her drink like it was nothing, then signaled for another. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm not here for this," he muttered, watching her toss back her second drink.

Anna, oblivious, was already on her way to the dance floor. She moved like she owned it, her body undulating to the beat, her hands in the air as if she were daring anyone to look away. Her eyes, though half-closed from the alcohol, sparkled with mischief. The clubbers were drawn to her, like moths to a flame. She thrived on it.

By the time she reached the dance floor, she was glowing, and not just from the alcohol. It was something else, something that radiated from beneath her skin—freedom, maybe, or defiance, or the reckless joy of a woman who had spent too long being careful and had finally decided to stop. She moved like she didn't care who was watching, and everyone was. Victor stayed back, his gaze fixed on her as the crowd closed in around her like a living thing, and he didn't like this, didn't like how easily she disappeared into it, didn't like how much she seemed to need the anonymity of strangers and the erasure of noise.

"Not joining?"

He turned. A girl stood beside him, smiling—confident, expectant, her body angled toward him in an invitation that needed no words.

"Not my thing," he said shortly.

She laughed, undeterred. "It could be."

But he wasn't listening anymore. His focus had shifted, pulled toward the dance floor by something sharper than jealousy, something that felt dangerously like possession.