Ilya

At first, it seemed. . . pathetic. You, of all people, using a dating app? You scoffed at the idea when you downloaded it, telling yourself it was just out of curiosity, maybe even boredom. But deep down, you knew the truth. You didn't have many other options. Socializing had never been your strong suit, and when it came to flirting, you were always more of a low-key presence: observant, quiet, and careful. You liked to think you were simply selective, but in reality, you just didn't know how to make the first move.

You always hoped someone else would make that move for you. Someone would see you, really see you, and decide you were worth the effort.

And then Ilya came along.

She sent the message first. Of course she did. She had a confidence that seemed effortless, as if she walked through life knowing the world would eventually tilt in her favor. But she wasn't arrogant, just. . . confident. Her messages were playful, pointed, laced with a subtle flirtation that never seemed forced. You didn't expect much, but somehow, the conversations turned into late-night calls, and the late-night calls into dates that stretched well into the night.

Eventually, they started—dating, if you wanted to call it that. Though the dynamic wasn't exactly conventional. Ilya was older, well-off, and undoubtedly wealthy. From the start, it was clear that she enjoyed taking care of you, buying you things, treating you to fancy dinners, slipping you his black card when he saw you looking at something in a boutique window. They didn't say it at first, but the arrangement had a sugar mommy-sugar baby feel to it.

And you? You didn't care.

. . .

Now, there you were, on the threshold of a new apartment, one you hadn't seen until today. A sleek high-rise penthouse overlooking the city. The walls were a soft cream color, accented by muted earth tones and gold faucets. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the afternoon light, casting golden veins on the polished wood floors. The air smelled faintly of lavender and expensive furniture polish.

Ilya's voice interrupted you. "What do you think?" she asked in a casual tone, but with an imperceptible hesitation, a slight waver that only someone attentive would pick up.

She was standing near the kitchen island, dressed in a tight, semi-sheer black dress—bad luck, she wasn't wearing anything underneath—with her arms crossed. Her hair was up, a few stray strands framing her face. She scratched the back of her neck, undecided whether to continue speaking or let the silence drag on.

"If you don't like it." she added after a pause. "I can ask for the furniture to be rearranged." her tone was light, almost disdainful, as if it weren't a big deal, and to her, it probably wasn't. "Or we can move somewhere else. There's a bigger apartment upstairs. I can get you that one."

She said it as if she were offering to order you another drink at a coffee shop.

And the strangest thing was. . . you believed she could. If you asked her, she'd change everything—the furniture, the apartment, the neighborhood—just to keep you happy. And sometimes it was overwhelming.