Chapter Five: Caught in the Spotlight

The Greenwich morning was sharp, the kind of cold that clawed into your bones as I hustled down Greenwich Avenue to The Gilded Spoon for my morning shift. Three days had passed since I’d bailed on Justin’s dinner at The Greenwich Hotel, four days since I saw him with Xiamond, her red dress and influencer smile burning into my brain like a brand on my skin. His texts sat unanswered in my phone, each one a fucking tease of the chasm between his world and mine. I’d told myself I was done, that a billionaire like Justin Drake belonged with someone like Xiamond, not a waitress with a body that didn’t fit in their glossy magazines. But my heart was a traitor, and every step felt heavier, my pussy still humming with the memory of his voice, his touch.

The Gilded Spoon was already pulsing when I arrived, its chandeliers spilling golden light over mahogany tables, the air thick with fresh croissants and espresso that made my mouth water. I tied my black apron over my jeans, the fabric hugging my hips like a lover I couldn’t trust, my jet-black hair yanked into a tight ponytail. I wanted work to drown out the noise in my head—Justin’s hazel eyes, his promise of “us” on that balcony—but it wasn’t working. Jake was behind the bar, his blond hair mussed, his grin too fucking chipper for 8 a.m. “You see the news, Kayla?” he said, sliding a coffee my way, his citrus-and-gin scent cutting through the morning haze.

“My boy?” I scoffed, but my stomach twisted, a mix of dread and want pooling low. I hadn’t checked my phone since last night’s news ticker about Justin and Xiamond. “What now?”

He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen with a smirk. “TMZ’s at it again. And X is losing its shit.” He showed me the headline: Justin Drake’s New Romance? Influencer Xiamond Fuels Speculation After Cozy Lunch. The photo was from The Gilded Spoon—Xiamond leaning toward Justin, her hand on his arm, his polite smile now twisted into tabloid fodder. Below it, X posts screamed: “Xiamond and Drake are ENDGAME!” and “Mystery woman out, influencer queen in!” My chest tightened, a sharp ache that made my breath catch. Mystery woman. That was me, reduced to a fucking footnote in Justin’s glittering life.

I shoved Jake’s phone back, my hands steady despite the storm raging inside. “Doesn’t matter,” I said, but my voice was thin, betraying the heat between my thighs. Xiamond’s perfect updo, her million-follower confidence—it was everything I wasn’t. The world saw her with Justin, not me. Why the fuck would they? I was scuffed sneakers and late bills; she was red-carpet glamour, the kind of woman who’d look perfect riding him in a penthouse. The auction, his words—“You’re a fucking inferno”—felt like a fever dream I’d been stupid to believe.

I threw myself into work, flashing practiced smiles as I took orders, but the restaurant’s buzz was like static against my skin. Customers whispered, their eyes flicking to their phones, probably scrolling the same bullshit headlines. Jake kept glancing at me, his usual flirty banter dialed down. “You okay?” he asked during a lull, leaning against the bar, his eyes too knowing.

“Fine,” I lied, scrubbing a table harder than necessary, the cloth biting into my palms. But I wasn’t. The scandal wasn’t just gossip; it was a fucking mirror, reflecting every doubt I’d carried since the auction. Justin had sworn Xiamond was a business contact, but the photos, the posts, the world’s assumptions—they made me feel small, like I’d been naive to think I could matter to a man like him.

Around noon, the door chimed, and my heart fucking stopped. Justin. He stood in the entrance, his gray coat dusted with snow, his hazel eyes scanning the room until they locked on me, burning through me like a touch. No Xiamond this time, just him, his dark curls tousled like he’d just fucked someone senseless, his broad frame owning the space. My tray wobbled, but I caught it, forcing my face into a neutral mask. You again. I wanted to run, to hide, to climb him right there and fuck the doubt out of my system, but I had tables to serve.

“Kayla,” he called, striding toward me, his voice cutting through the clatter of plates like a low growl. Heads turned—customers, coworkers, all gawking at the billionaire who’d just stepped out of a tabloid. I froze, my fingers tightening on my tray, my pussy throbbing despite myself.

“I’m working,” I said, my tone clipped but polite, years of waitressing keeping my voice steady. My heart was a mess, Xiamond’s image flashing in my mind—her red dress, her confidence, everything I’d never be.

He stepped closer, his woodsy cologne hitting me like a memory of the auction, making my nipples harden under my shirt. “You didn’t show up. You didn’t text back.” His voice was low, urgent, his eyes searching mine, stripping me bare. “I need to talk to you. About the headlines, Xiamond, all of it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, steadier than I felt, my body betraying me with every word. “I saw the news. Everyone has.” I nodded toward a table of whispering customers, their phones glowing with the TMZ article. “You and Xiamond look fucking perfect together.”

His jaw clenched, frustration flaring in his eyes, a heat that made my clit pulse. “It’s not real, Kayla. It’s media bullshit. Xiamond’s a tech ambassador for my company—nothing more. The lunch was a pitch, not a fucking date. I don’t want her. I want—” He stopped, glancing at the curious eyes around us, his voice dropping to a growl. “Can we go somewhere private?”

I shook my head, my ponytail swaying, my thighs clenching against the ache he stirred. “I’ve got tables.” But it wasn’t just work. It was the fear, the certainty that I didn’t belong in his world. The headlines had cemented it: Xiamond was his match, not me. I turned, moving to a table, but his voice followed, low and relentless.

“Kayla, please. One conversation. Tonight, anywhere you want.” His tone was almost desperate, cracking something inside me. I wanted to believe him, wanted to let him fuck me until the doubts disappeared, but the weight of the scandal, the X posts, the photos—it was too fucking much.

“I’m busy,” I said, not looking back, my hands trembling as I poured water for a customer. He lingered for a moment, his presence a pulse in the room, then left, the door chiming behind him. The restaurant’s noise swallowed his absence, but I felt it like a hole in my chest, a void where my desire and doubt collided.

The rest of my shift was a blur, my body on autopilot while my mind churned. Jake tried to cheer me up, slipping me a cookie from the kitchen, his warmth not quite reaching the cold inside me. After closing, I walked home down Greenwich Avenue, the streetlights casting long shadows, the winter air biting my skin. My phone buzzed—another text from Justin: I’m not giving up. You’re worth more than the fucking headlines. Name a time, a place. I stared at it, my thumb hovering, my pussy aching for him despite the storm in my head. But I couldn’t reply. The scandal had painted a picture I couldn’t unsee: Justin and Xiamond, the perfect pair, while I was the outsider, the “mystery woman” who didn’t belong.

At my apartment, I sank onto my couch, the emerald gown from the auction still draped over a chair, a fucking relic of a night that felt like a lie. I scrolled X, the posts relentless: Xiamond’s cryptic story—a heart emoji with a tech logo. Is it official? My stomach churned, a bitter mix of hurt and heat. I wasn’t jealous, not in the screaming, clawing way. I was just… less. Like I’d been a fucking fool to think Justin’s world had room for me. I set my phone face-down, the silence louder than the city outside.

Justin stood outside The Gilded Spoon, snow dusting his coat, his breath clouding in the cold. Kayla’s words—sharp, guarded—cut deeper than the winter air, slicing through him like a blade. The headlines, the X posts, Xiamond’s name fucking everywhere—it was a mess he hadn’t anticipated. He’d signed her for a tech campaign, not a goddamn romance, but the media didn’t give a shit about truth. Kayla did, though, and she was slipping away, her brown eyes walled off by doubt, her curves begging for his hands even as she pushed him away. He’d meant every word at the auction—she was his fucking inferno, the only real thing in his polished world. The scandal was noise, but her silence was a gut-punch. He pulled out his phone, typing one more text, knowing she might not answer but refusing to let her go without a fight.