The Billionaire’s Waitress

Chapter 3: You again

The morning after the Greenwich Charity Auction, I woke with a headache and a heart tangled in questions. The emerald gown I’d worn was draped over a chair in my tiny apartment, its silk catching the faint sunlight through my blinds. Justin’s words on the Country Club balcony lingered: “Because when I saw you, I felt something real.” I’d barely slept, replaying his hazel eyes, his hand in mine. Love at first sight? I didn’t believe in it, but his touch had stirred something I couldn’t name. As I dragged myself out of bed, doubt crept in. I was just a waitress in Greenwich’s glittering world. What could a billionaire want with me?

I had a lunch shift at The Gilded Spoon, and the routine of tying my apron grounded me. The restaurant was buzzing with post-auction gossip, its chandeliers casting light over mahogany tables filled with Greenwich’s elite. The air smelled of grilled steak and wine, but my mind was on Justin—his smile, his promise of a dinner date I wasn’t sure I could face. I weaved through the crowd, my jet-black hair in a ponytail, my sneakers scuffing the hardwood.

Jake was behind the bar, his blond hair flopping as he polished a glass. “Happy belated birthday, favorite coworker,” he said, his citrus-and-gin scent cutting through the noise. He’d gotten me into the auction, pulling strings with a security friend, and I knew he was dying for details.

“Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “Don’t start with the auction questions.”

He grinned, winking. “Fine, but I heard Justin Drake was glued to you. Billionaire’s got taste.”

My cheeks warmed, but I shrugged it off, grabbing a tray. “Whatever, Jake.” I turned to check my tables, hoping work would quiet the butterflies in my stomach.

Then I saw him. You again. Justin sat at a corner table by the window overlooking Greenwich Avenue, his broad frame unmistakable in a navy sweater that hugged his muscles. His dark hair curled slightly, and his hazel eyes caught the light. But he wasn’t alone. A woman sat across from him, her presence like a spotlight. She was stunning—tall, with dark hair swept into an elegant updo, her red dress clinging to a figure that belonged on a runway. Her smile was polished, her gestures confident as she leaned toward him, laughing at something he said. I recognized her from i********:: Xiamond, the influencer with a million followers, all glamour and charm.

My heart sank, but I kept moving, my tray steady despite the tremor in my hands. Xiamond’s laughter carried over the restaurant’s hum, bright and effortless. She was everything I wasn’t—poised, glamorous, born for Justin’s world of wealth and headlines. My black apron, my plus-sized curves, my scuffed sneakers—they felt like proof I didn’t belong. I didn’t storm over or snap; I just kept working, taking orders with a practiced smile. But inside, my thoughts were a storm. Had Justin meant anything he said last night? Or was I just a moment, a whim before he turned to someone like Xiamond?

I stayed busy, avoiding their table, but my eyes betrayed me, flicking to them when I thought no one noticed. Xiamond touched his arm, and he smiled—not the raw, vulnerable smile he’d given me, but a polite one. Still, it stung. I told myself it didn’t matter. He was a billionaire; I was a waitress. This was how his world worked, right? But the ache in my chest didn’t listen.

My phone buzzed in my apron. A text from Jake: Check TMZ. You’re famous. My stomach dropped. I slipped into the break room, my hands shaky as I opened the app. The headline screamed: Mystery Billionaire Drops $100K on Necklace at Greenwich Charity Auction—Who’s the Lucky Lady? The article was pure TMZ gossip: “Last night at the swanky Greenwich Country Club, tech billionaire Justin Drake made waves with a $100,000 bid on a sapphire necklace for a mystery woman in an emerald gown. Insiders spotted him cozying up to her on the balcony, but who is she? A new flame or a passing fancy? Stay tuned!”

My face burned. That “mystery woman” was me, but now Justin was here with Xiamond, her red dress a stark contrast to my faded uniform. The article made last night feel like a dream, one that was slipping away. I shoved my phone back, returning to my tables, my smile tighter now. I wouldn’t let this break me. I was tougher than that.

But then his voice cut through the clatter. “Kayla?”

I turned, tray in hand, and there he was, standing near my section. His hazel eyes locked onto mine, surprise and something warmer flickering in them. Xiamond was still at his table, scrolling her phone, her perfect nails glinting.

“You again,” I said, my voice calm despite the churn in my chest. I kept my face neutral, years of waitressing teaching me to hide what I felt.

“I didn’t know you were working,” he said, stepping closer. His cologne, woodsy and warm, hit me, and I hated how it pulled me back to the balcony. “Can we talk?”

“I’m busy,” I said, nodding toward my tables. My tone was polite, professional, but inside, I was reeling. Why was he here with her? Why did he care if I saw?

He glanced at Xiamond, his jaw tightening. “It’s not what it looks like. She’s a business contact, Kayla. A meeting.”

I nodded, keeping my smile fixed. “Sure. Looks like a nice meeting.” My voice didn’t waver, but my thoughts screamed: A business meeting with an influencer? After you said I was real? I wanted to ask, to demand answers, but I swallowed it down. I wouldn’t be that girl, jealous and desperate. Instead, I felt small, like my apron was a wall between his world and mine.

“The TMZ thing,” he said, lowering his voice. “I saw it. I’m sorry you’re caught up in it. I didn’t want this.”

“It’s fine,” I lied, my heart twisting. “I’ve got work.” I turned, moving to a table, but his eyes followed me, heavy and unyielding.

The rest of my shift was mechanical—smiling, serving, refilling glasses. Jake caught me in the break room later, his brow furrowed. “You okay? Saw Drake talking to you. Who’s the woman?”

“Xiamond,” I said, tying my apron tighter. “Some influencer. Doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t look like it doesn’t matter,” he said gently. “You’re allowed to feel something, Kayla.”

“I don’t,” I said, too quickly. But as I walked home down Greenwich Avenue, the winter air biting my skin, the lie unraveled. Xiamond’s glamour, Justin’s smile, the TMZ headline—they churned inside me. I wasn’t jealous, not the loud, angry kind. I was… less. Like I’d been foolish to think I could matter to someone like him. His world was chandeliers and influencers; mine was greasy aprons and late bills. Maybe that was the truth I’d been running from.

Justin sat back at his table, Xiamond’s chatter fading to static. Kayla’s brown eyes had met his, calm but guarded, and it cut deeper than anger would have. The TMZ report, this meeting spun into something it wasn’t—it was all wrong. Xiamond was a business deal, nothing more, but Kayla didn’t see that. She was real, a fire in Greenwich’s polished world, and he’d let her think she was less. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but as he watched her move through The Gilded Spoon, her jet-black hair swaying, he knew he’d fight to show her she was everything.