The Billionaire’s Waitress

Chapter Four: Running From You

The Greenwich Avenue streetlights glowed amber as I walked home from The Gilded Spoon, my sneakers crunching on the icy sidewalk. It was two days after my birthday, two days since the TMZ headline branded me Justin Drake's "mystery woman," and one day since I saw him at the restaurant with Xiamond, her red dress and million-follower smile burning into my mind. My black apron was stuffed in my bag, but the weight of that moment clung to me. Justin's words from the auction—"I felt something real"—felt like a cruel echo now. He'd called Xiamond a "business contact," but my insecurities whispered louder: I was just a waitress, out of place in his world of influencers and headlines. Why would he choose me?

My phone buzzed as I passed the shuttered boutiques, their windows dark against the winter chill. A text from Justin: Can we talk? I meant what I said at the auction. Dinner tomorrow night? My heart stuttered, but doubt flooded in. Dinner with a billionaire? With Xiamond's laughter still ringing in my ears? I shoved my phone into my pocket, ignoring the message. I wasn't ready to face him—or the part of me that wanted to say yes.

The next day, my shift at The Gilded Spoon was quieter, the post-auction buzz fading. The restaurant's mahogany tables gleamed under chandeliers, and the scent of espresso and rosemary hung in the air. I tied my apron over my jeans, my jet-black hair in a messy bun, trying to focus on work. Jake was at the bar, his blond hair catching the light as he mixed a martini. "You look like you're hiding from someone," he said, smirking.

"Maybe I am," I muttered, grabbing a tray. I hadn't told him about Justin's text, but Jake's knack for reading me was annoying sometimes.

"Drake again?" he asked, leaning closer, his citrus-and-gin scent sharp. "He's been in here asking about you."

My stomach flipped. "He's here?" I scanned the dining room, half-expecting to see Xiamond's glossy updo or Justin's hazel eyes.

"Nah, yesterday after your shift," Jake said. "Looked frustrated. Said something about a misunderstanding. You ghosting him?"

I shrugged, forcing a smile. "Just busy." But my mind was racing. Justin had come looking for me? After sitting with Xiamond, all charm and polish? I busied myself with tables, taking orders with a practiced nod, but my thoughts kept circling back to him. His text burned in my pocket, unanswered. I wanted to believe him, but Xiamond's presence—and that TMZ article—made me feel like a fool for even hoping.

Around noon, the door chimed, and there he was. Justin. No Xiamond this time, just him in a gray coat, his dark hair slightly tousled, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His hazel eyes found me immediately, and my breath caught. You again. I gripped my tray, my knuckles whitening, and kept moving, delivering coffee to a couple by the window. But I felt him watching me, his gaze like a tether I couldn't shake.

"Kayla," he called, his voice low but firm, cutting through the restaurant's hum. He was at a small table now, alone, his coat draped over the chair. I had no choice but to approach, my sneakers scuffing the hardwood.

"What can I get you?" I asked, my tone professional, my smile tight. Inside, my heart was a mess of want and fear. Xiamond's red dress flashed in my mind, her confidence a reminder of everything I wasn't.

He leaned forward, his cologne—woodsy, warm—pulling me back to the auction's balcony. "I texted you," he said, his voice softer now. "Dinner tonight. Just us. I want to explain... everything."

My fingers tightened on my notepad. Dinner. The word felt like a trap, promising a world I didn't belong in. "I'm working late," I lied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Maybe another time."

His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn't waver. "Kayla, it's not what you think with Xiamond. She's pitching a tech collab, nothing more. You saw the TMZ thing—it's all noise. I want to talk about us."

Us. The word hit like a spark, but my doubts doused it. Xiamond was glamorous, connected, part of his world. I was scuffed sneakers and late bills. "I've got tables," I said, turning away before he could see the crack in my composure. "Enjoy your lunch."

I kept busy, avoiding his table, but his presence was a pulse in the room. When I glanced over, he was sipping coffee, his eyes flicking to me between bites of a sandwich. I told myself I was doing the right thing. He'd forget me, move on to someone like Xiamond who fit his life. But the ache in my chest grew with every step I took away from him.

By the end of my shift, I was exhausted, my thoughts a tangle of self-doubt. Jake caught me in the break room, untying my apron. "You ditched Drake, didn't you?" he said, leaning against the counter. "He looked like a kicked puppy when he left."

"He'll survive," I said, but my voice was hollow. I checked my phone: another text from Justin. I'm at The Greenwich Hotel tonight, 7 PM. Table's reserved. Please come. I stared at the words, my thumb hovering over the reply button. I could go, hear him out, let myself believe in "us." But the image of Xiamond's perfect smile, the TMZ headline, the gap between his world and mine—it was too much. I locked my phone, shoving it into my bag.

That night, I didn't go to The Greenwich Hotel. Instead, I sat in my tiny apartment, the emerald gown from the auction still draped over a chair, mocking me. I poured a glass of cheap wine, the TV droning in the background. A news ticker caught my eye: Billionaire Justin Drake Spotted with Influencer Xiamond—New Romance or Business Deal? My stomach twisted. The photo showed them at The Gilded Spoon, her hand on his arm, his polite smile. It was the same moment I'd seen, now splashed across screens, fueling the "new woman" rumors that would explode in tomorrow's headlines.

I didn't text him back. I couldn't. Every time I thought of him, I saw Xiamond, her glamour a wall I couldn't climb. I wasn't jealous—not the loud, angry kind. I was just... small. Like I'd been naive to think I could matter to someone like him. My phone stayed silent, and I told myself it was better this way. Safer. But as I curled up on my couch, the winter wind rattling my window, I couldn't shake the feeling I'd just run from something real.

Justin sat alone at The Greenwich Hotel, the candlelit table set for two, the chair across from him empty. Kayla hadn't shown, hadn't texted. His fingers tapped the table, frustration coiling in his chest. The news ticker on the restaurant's TV flashed Xiamond's name, twisting a business lunch into a scandal. He'd seen Kayla's face at The Gilded Spoon—guarded, doubting—and knew she'd seen it too. She was slipping away, not because she didn't feel it, but because she didn't believe she was enough. He'd meant every word at the auction, and he wasn't done trying. Kayla was real, a spark in his polished world, and he'd find a way to prove it.