Chapter Four: Running From You

The Greenwich Avenue streetlights cast an amber glow as I trudged home from The Gilded Spoon, my sneakers crunching on the icy sidewalk, the winter chill biting through my thin jacket. Two days after my twenty-first birthday, two days since TMZ branded me Justin Drake’s “new flame,” and one day since I saw him at the restaurant with Xiamond, her red dress and million-follower smile seared into my brain like a bad fuck. My black apron was stuffed in my bag, but the weight of that moment clung to me, heavy and sticky. Justin’s words from the auction—“You’re a fucking inferno”—felt like a cruel tease now. He’d called Xiamond a “business contact,” but my insecurities screamed louder: I was just a waitress, a nobody in his world of influencers and headlines. Why the hell would he pick me when he could have her?

My phone buzzed as I passed the shuttered boutiques, their dark windows reflecting my tired eyes. A text from Justin: Can we talk? I meant every word at the auction. Dinner tomorrow night? My heart stuttered, a traitorous pulse of want shooting straight to my pussy. Dinner with a billionaire? With Xiamond’s laughter still echoing in my head, her perfect tits practically screaming “I belong here”? I shoved my phone into my pocket, ignoring the message. No way was I ready to face him—or the part of me that wanted to spread my legs and say yes.

The next day, my shift at The Gilded Spoon was quieter, the post-auction buzz fading like a spent orgasm. The restaurant’s mahogany tables gleamed under chandeliers, the air thick with espresso and rosemary, teasing my senses. I tied my apron over my jeans, the fabric hugging my hips, my jet-black hair yanked into a messy bun that screamed “I’m over it.” But I wasn’t. Jake was at the bar, his blond hair catching the light as he mixed a martini, his smirk telling me he saw right through my bullshit.

“You look like you’re running from someone,” he said, leaning closer, his citrus-and-gin scent sharp enough to make my mouth water.

“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 fucking annoying.

“Drake again?” he asked, his voice low, teasing. “He’s been sniffing around here, asking about you.”

My stomach flipped, a mix of dread and desire pooling low. “He’s here?” I scanned the dining room, half-expecting Xiamond’s glossy updo or Justin’s hazel eyes to burn through me.

“Nah, yesterday after your shift,” Jake said, shaking his head. “Looked pissed, like he fucked up. Said something about a misunderstanding. You ghosting him, babe?”

I shrugged, forcing a smirk. “Just busy.” But my mind was a goddamn mess, racing with images of Justin’s broad shoulders, that balcony promise, and Xiamond’s perfect smile. His text sat unanswered in my pocket, a weight I couldn’t ignore. I wanted to believe him, but that TMZ article and Xiamond’s presence made me feel like a fucking idiot for even hoping.

Around noon, the door chimed, and there he was. Justin. No Xiamond this time, just him in a gray coat that hugged his muscled frame, his dark curls tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed after fucking someone senseless. His hazel eyes locked onto mine, and my breath caught, my pussy clenching at the memory of his voice promising to wreck me. You again. I gripped my tray, knuckles white, and kept moving, delivering coffee to a couple by the window. But his gaze was a fucking tether, pulling me back no matter how hard I tried to run.

“Kayla,” he called, his voice low but firm, cutting through the restaurant’s hum like a blade. He was at a small table now, alone, his coat slung over the chair. I had no choice but to approach, my sneakers scuffing the hardwood, my body humming with want and fear.

“What can I get you?” I asked, my tone all business, my smile tight as fuck. Xiamond’s red dress flashed in my mind, her confidence a reminder of everything I wasn’t—glamorous, connected, born for his world.

He leaned forward, his woodsy cologne wrapping around me, pulling me back to that balcony where I’d wanted to fuck him under the stars. “I texted you,” he said, voice softer now, rough with something that made my nipples harden. “Dinner tonight. Just us. I need to explain… everything.”

My fingers tightened on my notepad, my pussy throbbing at the thought of “just us.” Dinner. The word felt like a trap, dangling 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 clenched, but his eyes didn’t waver, burning into me like he could see every dirty thought I’d had about him. “Kayla, it’s not what you think with Xiamond. She’s pitching some tech collab, nothing more. You saw that TMZ bullshit—it’s all lies. I want to talk about us.”

Us. The word hit like a spark, igniting something hot and reckless in me, but my doubts doused it fast. Xiamond was all glamour, all power, the kind of woman who’d look perfect riding him in a penthouse. I was scuffed sneakers and a bank account that barely covered rent. “I’ve got tables,” I said, turning away before he could see the crack in my armor. “Enjoy your lunch.”

I kept busy, dodging his table, but his presence was a fucking pulse in the room, making my skin hum. When I glanced over, he was sipping coffee, his eyes flicking to me between bites of a sandwich, like he was undressing me with every look. I told myself I was doing the right thing—running from him, from us. He’d forget me, move on to someone like Xiamond who fit his glossy life. But the ache in my chest, the wet heat between my thighs, told me I was full of shit.

By the end of my shift, I was drained, my thoughts a tangled mess of self-doubt and desire. Jake caught me in the break room, untying my apron. “You blew off Drake, didn’t you?” he said, leaning against the counter, his eyes too knowing. “He looked like a kicked puppy when he left.”

“He’ll survive,” I said, my voice hollow as I shoved my apron into my bag. 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 fall into whatever “us” might be. But Xiamond’s smile, that TMZ headline, the chasm between his world and mine—it was too fucking much. I locked my phone, tossing it into my bag.

That night, I didn’t go to The Greenwich Hotel. Instead, I holed up in my tiny apartment, the emerald gown from the auction still draped over a chair, mocking me with its elegance. 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—Romance or Business Deal? My stomach twisted, a bitter mix of hurt and heat. 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 plastered across screens, fueling 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’d never scale. I wasn’t jealous—not the loud, catty kind. I was just… small. Like I’d been a fucking fool 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, something that could’ve fucked me up in the best way.

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, and it was driving him fucking insane. His fingers tapped the table, frustration coiling in his chest, his cock half-hard just thinking about her. The news ticker on the restaurant’s TV flashed Xiamond’s name, twisting a business lunch into a scandal that was pushing Kayla further away. He’d seen her face at The Gilded Spoon—guarded, doubting, her brown eyes slicing through him—and knew she’d seen it too. She was slipping away, not because she didn’t feel the fire between them, but because she didn’t believe she was enough. He’d meant every word at the auction—she was his fucking inferno—and he wasn’t done chasing her. Kayla was real, a blazing spark in his polished, fake-ass world, and he’d burn it all down to prove she was everything he needed.