Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Leilani's POV

The food actually tasted like something for once. Usually, I’m just shoveling a protein bar down my throat in a dirty locker room or eating cold fries at 4:00 AM while leaning against a trash can. This was different. Real fruit, eggs that didn't taste like plastic, and a view of the city that made everything look tiny.

​Even my problems felt a little smaller from up here.

​"You’re quiet," Timothy said. He’d dropped the waiter act, but he was still watching me. Not like he was hunting me anymore, but like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.

​"Just thinking about how much of a weirdo you are," I said, taking a sip of the juice. "Who tries to redo a meeting at seven in the morning?"

​"A guy who knows he screwed up his only shot," he said. He wasn't even joking. He sounded tired, but totally honest. "I’ve spent the whole week thinking about that night in the VIP room. I keep seeing the look on your face when I called you delusional. I didn't like it, Leilani."

​I poked at a piece of melon on my plate. "Most guys like you don’t care how girls like me feel."

​"I’m not most guys," he said, and for a second, that billionaire spark was back in his eyes. But then it softened. "At least, I’m trying not to be. Not with you."

​I looked at him—really looked at him. Without the fancy suit and the loud music and his jerk friends, he just looked like a man. A guy who had too much of everything but nothing that actually mattered.

​"The breakfast was nice, Timothy," I said, setting my fork down. "The 'new' first impression? It worked. You’re less of a prick today."

​He let out a short, dry laugh. "I’ll take 'less of a prick' as a win."

​"But," I added, and his face got serious again. "It doesn’t change things. I still have my life, and you have yours. I’m still the girl who serves your drinks at 2:00 AM."

​Timothy stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony, looking out at the city. "Is that all you want to be? Because Cynthia told me you’re a writer. She says you’ve got notebooks full of stories."

​I felt my heart skip. I hated that Cynthia talked about me, even if she meant well. "My stories are just for me. They aren't part of this."

​"Why not?" He turned around, leaning against the glass railing. "I want to know the girl who writes. Not just the girl who slaps billionaires."

​"Maybe that girl isn't for sale," I snapped, the old defensiveness coming back.

​"Good," Timothy said, stepping toward me. He didn't stop until he was standing right over my chair. He didn't touch me, but I could feel the heat coming off him. "Because I’m not trying to buy her. I’m trying to earn her."

​I looked up at him, my breath catching in my throat. The air between us felt thick, like it was vibrating. This was the "chasing game" everyone talked about, but it didn’t feel like a game anymore. It felt heavy. It felt real.

​"I have to go," I whispered, pushing my chair back.

​He didn't try to stop me this time. He just followed me to the door, watching as I put on my shoes and straightened my messy work shirt.

​"See you tonight, Leilani?" he asked as the elevator dinged.

​I looked at him one last time. He looked... hopeful. It was a weird look for a guy like him.

​"Maybe," I said.

​As the doors closed, I leaned my head against the cool metal wall. My brain was telling me to run, to stay away, and keep things professional. But my heart? My heart was starting to write a story I wasn't sure I was ready to finish.

**

​The night started out normal—well, as normal as it gets at a place like Apex. The bass was thumping, the neon lights were making my head ache, and I was trying to keep my mind off that breakfast on Timothy’s balcony. I kept telling myself it was just a "do-over," but my skin still felt weirdly jumpy every time I thought about him standing over my chair.

​It was steady for a few hours. Until the front curtains moved and the whole energy in the room just... shifted.

​I was wiping down the bar when I saw someone. She didn't walk in like the usual crowd. She glided. She was wearing this silk dress that probably cost more than my entire life, her hair was perfect, and she looked like she owned the air she was breathing. She didn't look like the girls who came here to get drunk and party. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.

​She walked straight to the bar and sat down, her eyes scanning the room until they landed right on me.

​"Can I get you something?" I asked, trying to act professional even though my gut was telling me something was off.

​She didn't answer right away. She just tilted her head, looking at my face, my hair, my cheap uniform. It wasn't a mean look—it was worse. It was curious. Like she was inspecting a piece of furniture she wasn't sure about buying.

​"So, you’re Leilani," she said. Her voice was like honey—smooth and expensive.

​I slowed down my wiping. "I am. Do I know you?"

​"No. But I know plenty about you," she said, a small, perfect smile touching her lips. "I’m Lily. And in our circle, you’re all anyone talks about lately. The girl who slapped Timothy Beckett and didn't get sued into oblivion."

​The name hit me like a punch. Timothy’s ex. I’d seen her in the papers before—the sophisticated woman who was always on his arm at those fancy galas. Seeing her in person was different. She made me feel like I was wearing a cheap costume.

​"I’m just a waitress," I said, my voice getting hard.

​"Is that all?" Lily leaned in, resting her chin on a hand with a perfect manicure. "Because Timothy hasn't been to a single meeting on time in a week. He doesn't go out with the guys anymore. He just... sits here. Watching you. I had to see for myself what kind of girl could turn a man like him into a desperate teenager."

​"I don't know what you want," I told her, clutching the rag tight.

​"I don't want anything, honey," she said, her eyes trailing over me again. "I just wanted to see the competition. And I have to say... I’m surprised. You’re not his type at all. You’re too... real. Timothy usually likes things he can control."

​"Well, I’m not something to be controlled," I snapped.

​"I can see that," Lily said, standing up. She didn't even bother ordering a drink. "But just a word of advice, Leilani. Men like Timothy? They love the chase. They love a challenge. But once they catch what they’re after, they usually realize they don't have a place to put it in their world."

​She turned to leave, but stopped when she saw the entrance.

​Timothy was standing there. He had just walked in, his eyes searching the room for me like they always did, but they stopped dead when they hit Lily. His face went from hopeful to ice-cold in a second.

​"Lily," he said, his voice a low warning. "What are you doing here?"

​"Just satisfying my curiosity, Tim," she said, patting his arm as she walked past him. "She’s charming. I see why you're obsessed. Just try not to break this one too hard."

​Timothy didn't even look at her as she left. He walked straight to the bar, his eyes locked on mine. He looked worried, almost panicking.

​"Leilani," he said, reaching across the wood. "Whatever she said—"

​"Is it true?" I asked, stepping back so he couldn't touch me. "Am I just the 'challenge' of the month? Is this all just a game to see if you can finally catch the girl who said no?"

​The look in his eyes wasn't arrogant anymore. It was hurt. But after seeing Lily, I couldn't tell what was real and what was just part of the chase.

Timothy didn’t flinch. He didn’t back away, and he didn't give me that smooth, corporate answer I was expecting. Instead, he reached out and gripped the edge of the bar so hard his knuckles turned white.

​"She’s wrong, Leilani," he said, his voice low and vibrating with a kind of frustration I hadn't heard before. "Lily thinks the whole world works like a transaction because that’s the only way she knows how to live. But she doesn’t speak for me."

​"She seemed pretty sure of herself," I muttered, looking down at the damp rag in my hand. "And she’s right about one thing. I don’t fit in your world. I’m the girl who brings the bottles, Timothy. I’m not the girl who sits at the table."

​"I don't care about the table!" Timothy snapped, making a couple of people at the end of the bar look over. He lowered his voice, leaning in until we were practically eye-to-eye. "You think I’ve been sitting here every night, ruining my reputation and skipping meetings, just to win some stupid 'challenge'? I have plenty of trophies at home, Leilani. I don't need another one."

​I looked at him, trying to find the lie. His eyes were wide, a little desperate, and for the first time, they looked human.

​"Then what is this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Why are you really here?"

​"Because you're the first person in years who looked at me and didn't see a bank account," he said. "You looked at me and saw a prick. And you were right. You forced me to actually look at myself, and I didn't like what I saw. I'm not chasing a 'flavor of the month.' I’m chasing the feeling I get when I’m around someone who's actually real."

​I stayed quiet for a long time. The club was screaming around us, the bass thumping in my chest, but between the two of us, it was dead silent. I wanted to believe him. A part of me—the part that still remembered the quiet breakfast on his balcony—actually did. But Lily’s words were still ringing in my ears like a warning bell.

​"I’m not saying I don't believe you," I said finally, meeting his gaze. "But I’ve spent my whole life watching people like you take what they want and leave a mess behind. I can’t just turn that off because you gave me some nice eggs and an apology."

​Timothy let out a long breath, looking a little relieved but still tense. "I’m not asking you to turn it off. I know I’ve got a lot to prove. Just... don't let her get in your head. Lily is the past. I’m trying to figure out a future, and for some reason, I can't stop seeing you in it."

​"Don't get ahead of yourself, Beckett," I said, though my heart gave a traitorous little thump. I picked up a glass and started polishing it, my hands still a bit shaky. "I’m still guarding the gate. You’re just... not on the 'instant reject' list anymore."

​A tiny, lopsided smile crossed his face. "I'll take it. It's better than a slap."

​"Barely," I muttered, but I couldn't hide the small tug at the corner of my mouth.

​He stayed for the rest of my shift, sitting at the bar and occasionally catching my eye. I kept my guard up, keeping the conversation short and professional, but every time I saw him sitting there—ignoring his buzzing phone just to watch me work—the wall I’d built around myself felt a little less solid.

​I wasn't ready to let him in. Not yet. But as I watched him walk out alone at 4:00 AM, I realized I wasn't exactly pushing him away anymore, either.