Elena turned, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. "You spend your life giving everyone what they want, Andrei. The neighbors want to see the cars, the boys want to see the money, and you want everyone to see me."
"You've been quiet all night," Andrei said, leaning against the marble. "The party is for you."
He stood up, his heavy gold watch catching the light, and walked over to her. In their world, love was often a transaction, a display of power or a collection of beautiful things. But with Elena, it felt like the 2015 hit was written specifically for his predicament.
"No," she whispered, the manele beat pulsing behind them like a heartbeat. "The song says 'Ask me for whatever you want.' But you never ask what I need . I don't need the gold, Andrei. I need the man who didn't have any of it."
As they walked away from the lights of the villa, the faint sound of the music still drifted from a neighbor's house down the beach—a reminder that while the world celebrates the "official video" version of life, the real story happens in the quiet moments between the lyrics.
The sun was dipping below the horizon in Mamaia, painting the Black Sea in shades of gold and violet. On the terrace of a private villa, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, roasted meats, and the unmistakable, rhythmic trill of a clarinet.
Andrei sat at the head of the table, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway. He had everything—the cars, the influence, the respect. But as the speakers began to play the familiar opening chords of his gaze drifted to Elena, who was standing by the balcony railing, looking out at the waves.
For the first time in years, he didn't offer a gift or a promise of a luxury trip. He simply turned off the external speakers, silencing the music for the crowd, and pulled her into a dance in the sudden, heavy silence of the terrace.