On Start

7:56 p.m.

I was still standing barefoot in front of the mirror, the dress smooth over my hips. I reapplied my lipstick. One last check. I felt... hot. Irresistible. Ready.

Just the shoes. And then—I hesitated.

“Shit,” I muttered. I couldn't go without panties. Not tonight. This wasn't some gutter kick. This was the fucking Champions League. Everything had to be perfect.

Every detail had to be just right. I ran to the wardrobe and pulled open the drawer. The one thong I had actually wanted to wear this morning. Black silk, fine lace, almost transparent, so delicate you could hardly feel it. A hint of nothing—made for an evening when I was ready to show everything without revealing anything.

I gathered up the dress, wiggled my hips, pushed it up over my waist, one foot on the bed, and slid into the panties. They nestled gently and coolly against my smooth skin, feeling like a seductive caress.

Then I felt it. In the back of my neck. Something wasn't right.

I turned around—slowly.

The balcony door. No curtains. No privacy. Bright inside, dark outside.

I went to lower the blinds. I looked out. Down on the street, directly opposite, in the glow of the streetlight: the silver sports car. Wide. Flat. Elegant. No chauffeur.

And he looked up.

How long had he been there?

I froze. Had I messed up? Would he still take me with him? I looked down, searching for his gaze. And I saw it—the slight tug at the corners of his mouth. Not amused. Not mocking. More like... appreciative.

I had to smile. I waved. He waved back.

Green lights. Let's go!