Chapter 3: You Again

The morning after the Greenwich Charity Auction, I woke with a pounding headache and a heart tangled in knots that wouldn’t loosen. The emerald gown I’d worn was slung over a chair in my cramped apartment, its silk catching the faint sunlight slipping through my blinds, taunting me with last night’s fleeting glamour. Justin’s words on that balcony burned in my mind: “You’re a fucking inferno.” Sleep had been a lost cause, his hazel eyes and the heat of his hand haunting me, making my thighs clench in the dark. Love at first sight? I didn’t swallow that romantic crap, but his touch had sparked something raw—something I couldn’t shake. As I dragged myself out of bed, doubt crept in like a cold hand on my skin. I was just a waitress in Greenwich’s glitzy shitshow. What could a billionaire want with me, other than a quick, dirty fuck?

I had a lunch shift at The Gilded Spoon, and tying my black apron around my hips grounded me, the fabric clinging to my curves like a lover I didn’t trust. The restaurant was alive, its chandeliers casting molten light over mahogany tables packed with Greenwich’s elite, their post-auction gossip thicker than the scent of seared steak and overpriced Pinot. My mind wasn’t on the orders—it was on Justin. That wicked smirk, his promise of a dinner date that had my pussy throbbing just thinking about it. I weaved through the crowd, jet-black hair pulled tight in a ponytail, my sneakers scuffing the hardwood, my body still humming from last night’s fantasies.

Jake was behind the bar, his blond hair flopping into those blue eyes that always hinted at trouble. “Happy belated birthday, you sexy thing,” he said, his citrus-and-gin scent cutting through the restaurant’s heat. He’d pulled strings to get me into the auction, and I knew he was dying to hear if I’d gotten laid—or at least gotten close.

“Thanks, stud,” I said, forcing a grin despite the storm in my chest. “Don’t hit me with auction questions.”

He winked, polishing a glass with a flourish. “Fine, but I heard Justin Drake was all over you. Billionaire’s got a hard-on for my favorite coworker.”

My cheeks burned, but I played it cool, grabbing a tray. “Whatever, Jake. Keep dreaming.” I turned to check my tables, hoping the chaos would drown the butterflies rioting in my stomach.

Then I saw him. You again. Justin sat at a corner table by the window overlooking Greenwich Avenue, his broad frame filling out a navy sweater that hugged his muscles like it was begging to be torn off. His dark curls were just messy enough to make my fingers itch, and those hazel eyes caught the light, pinning me where I stood. But he wasn’t alone. A woman sat across from him, her presence like a fucking spotlight. She was stunning—tall, dark hair swept into an elegant updo, her red dress plastered to a body built for magazine covers and filthy fantasies. Her smile was all polish, her gestures dripping confidence as she leaned toward him, laughing at something he said. I knew her from I*******m: Xiamond, the influencer with a million followers, all curves and charm, the kind of woman who’d look perfect fucked against a penthouse window.

My heart sank, a cold knot tightening in my gut, but I kept moving, tray steady even as my hands shook. Xiamond’s laugh sliced through the restaurant’s hum, bright and effortless, like she was born to own this world. She was everything I wasn’t—poised, glamorous, made for Justin’s realm of wealth and headlines. My faded apron, my plus-sized curves, my scuffed sneakers—they screamed I was out of place. I didn’t storm over or lose my shit; I just kept working, flashing practiced smiles as I took orders. But inside, I was a fucking mess. Had Justin meant a word of that balcony bullshit? Or was I just a fleeting thrill—a curvy distraction before he moved on to someone like her?

I tried to stay busy, dodging their table, but my eyes betrayed me, stealing glances when I thought no one noticed. Xiamond touched his arm, her manicured nails glinting, and he smiled—not the raw, hungry look he’d given me, but a polite curve of his lips. It still fucking hurt, like a blade across my skin. I told myself it didn’t matter. He was a billionaire; I was a waitress. This was how his world worked—pretty things for pretty people. But the ache in my chest called me a liar.

My phone buzzed in my apron, snapping me out of it. A text from Jake: Check TMZ. You’re fucking famous. My stomach plummeted. I slipped into the break room, hands trembling as I pulled up the app. The headline hit like a punch: Mystery Billionaire Drops $100K on Necklace at Greenwich Charity Auction—Who’s His New Flame? 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 caught him getting cozy with her on the balcony, but who’s she? A new lover or just a passing spark? Stay tuned!”

My face burned hotter than my pussy had last night. That “mystery woman” was me, but now Justin was here with Xiamond, her red dress a slap against my faded uniform. The article made last night feel like a fevered wet dream, one that was slipping away. I shoved my phone back, returning to my tables, my smile tighter, my heart heavier. I wouldn’t let this break me. I’d survived worse than some rich prick’s games.

But then his voice cut through the clatter, low and rough. “Kayla?”

I turned, tray in hand, and there he was, standing in my section, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with a heat that made my clit pulse. Xiamond was still at his table, scrolling her phone, her perfect nails catching the light like a taunt.

“You again,” I said, keeping my voice cool despite the fire in my chest. Years of waitressing had taught me to hide the chaos inside, but fuck, he made it hard.

“Didn’t know you were working,” he said, stepping closer, his woodsy cologne wrapping around me like a tease, pulling me back to that balcony where I’d wanted to fuck him senseless. “Can we talk?”

“I’m busy,” I said, nodding toward my tables, my tone sharp but professional. Why was he here with her? Why did he give a shit if I saw?

He glanced at Xiamond, his jaw tightening like he was pissed at himself. “It’s not what you think. She’s a business contact, Kayla. Just a meeting.”

I nodded, my smile a mask. “Sure. Looks like a real cozy meeting.” My voice didn’t crack, but my thoughts screamed: A business meeting with a fucking influencer? After you said I was your goddamn inferno? I wanted to grab his sweater and demand answers, but I swallowed it down. I wouldn’t be that desperate bitch, clawing for scraps of his attention. Still, I felt small, like my apron was a fucking wall between his world and mine.

“The TMZ thing,” he said, voice dropping low, urgent. “I saw it. I’m sorry you got dragged into that mess. I didn’t want this for you.”

“It’s fine,” I lied, my heart twisting, my pussy still traitorously wet for him. “I’ve got work.” I turned, moving to a table, but his eyes burned into my back, heavy and unrelenting.

The rest of my shift was robotic—smiling, serving, refilling glasses while my mind churned. Jake caught me in the break room later, his brow creased. “You okay, babe? Saw Drake talking to you. Who’s the chick?”

“Xiamond,” I said, yanking my apron tighter like it could hold me together. “Some influencer. Doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Doesn’t look like it doesn’t matter,” he said, softer now, his eyes searching mine. “You’re allowed to want him, Kayla. Or to tell him to fuck off.”

“I don’t,” I snapped, too fast, the lie bitter on my tongue. But as I walked home down Greenwich Avenue, the winter air biting my skin through my thin jacket, the truth unraveled. Xiamond’s effortless glamour, Justin’s polite smile, that TMZ headline—they clawed at me. I wasn’t jealous, not the screaming, hair-pulling kind. I was… less. Like I’d been a fucking idiot to think I could matter to someone like him. His world was chandeliers and influencers who fucked for clout; mine was greasy aprons and bills I could barely pay. Maybe that was the truth I’d been dodging all along.

Justin sank back into his seat, Xiamond’s chatter fading to a dull hum. Kayla’s brown eyes had met his, calm but sharp, slicing him deeper than any tantrum could. The TMZ report, this so-called “business meeting” spun into something it wasn’t—it was all fucked. Xiamond was a means to an end, a social media deal for his company, nothing more, but Kayla didn’t know that. She was real, a blazing fire in Greenwich’s fake-ass world, and he’d let her think she was just another notch. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but watching her move through The Gilded Spoon, her jet-black hair swaying, her curves begging for his hands, he knew he’d burn down his own world to prove she was everything he wanted.