waiting on Andrea

You had the driver head downtown toward the restaurant. The car hummed smoothly along Lakeshore Drive, skyscrapers catching the late afternoon sun in sharp glass reflections. Shopping bags crowded the seat beside you, glossy labels shouting wealth. For a moment, you felt proud. But then the thought of Andrea cut into you like a pinprick. I don’t want her to think I’m bragging about Viktor’s money, you muttered under your breath. All the Dior and Neiman Marcus bags suddenly felt a little too loud.

You considered for a few minutes, then reached for one of the simpler purchases—a sleeveless gray dress, jersey-soft and understated. It clung close, sculpting curves without the flashy logos or extravagant textures. It had still cost several hundred dollars, but compared to the couture tucked away in the bags, it was practically modest.

“Pull over for a minute,” you told the driver.

Then, without hesitation, you began changing right there in the back seat. Yulia’s body shimmered in the dim interior as the camisole slid down your shoulders, skirt dropping from your hips. You could feel the driver stiffen in the front, hands tightening on the wheel as if gripping his own resolve. But the rearview mirror betrayed him—the flicker of his eyes darting back, unable to resist.

Instead of bristling, you felt a dangerous little thrill—like playing with fire. You drew out the moment, adjusting slowly, stretching the dress up your legs as though the fabric resisted. His car swerved slightly, then again, before he caught himself. You covered your mouth to hide a laugh but the giggle escaped anyway.

By the time you smoothed the gray dress down over your body, you felt transformed—not ostentatious, not shouting wealth, but quietly magnetic. You slipped on your sunglasses, gathered your bags, and as the car rolled up to the restaurant entrance on Michigan Avenue, you gave the driver one last look. His eyes met yours for half a second before darting away. You left him with a smile and a sly wink.

Inside, the restaurant breathed with Chicago energy—industrial steel softened by leather booths, the scent of seared steak mingling with clinking glasses. Conversation was low but constant, a background hum of the city’s pulse. You moved through the space, heads turning toward the tall, curving figure in gray jersey, subtle yet striking. Victor had indeed reserved a table; it sat waiting in a corner, warm light glancing off the glasses.

You slid into the booth, the fabric of the dress pulling taut across your thighs as you crossed your legs. A waiter appeared immediately, setting down water with lemon. You lifted the glass, playing idly with the rim as you watched the entrance, pulse quickening at the thought of Andrea stepping through those doors.