All Chapters of The Billionaire Waitress : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Early December’s chill kissed Greenwich Avenue, the trees bare but glowing under streetlights as I sat on my apartment’s worn couch, my phone buzzing with notifications I couldn’t escape. Two weeks had passed since TMZ unmasked me as Kayla Reed, the “waitress in Justin Drake’s beach encounter,” my life—my job at The Gilded Spoon, my thrift-store gown, my struggling roots—splashed across headlines and X posts. The grainy Tod’s Point photo from our passionate night haunted me, Justin’s hands on my skin, my body arching under him, now twisted into gossip. Meeting his family—Eleanor’s icy gaze, Lila’s warmth—had been tough, but the world’s judgment cut deeper, my heart aching even as my body craved him. Now, Justin was in New York City, launching a press tour to control the narrative, to protect us. My jet-black hair fell loose, my navy T-shirt and jeans a stark contrast to the spotlight, my nipples tightening at the thought of him. Could our love survive this storm?I flicked on the TV,

Mid-December 2025 bathed Tod’s Point in a soft golden glow, the Long Island Sound shimmering as I stood on the Greenwich beach where Justin and I had bared our love a year ago. One week had passed since the Met Gala, where my sapphire gown, dripping with crystals to match the auction necklace, had sparkled under New York’s lights. Xiamond’s Paris X posts—her cryptic He’s still my muse—had stirred TMZ rumors, but Justin’s fierce reassurance on that balcony had quieted my doubts, leaving my heart warm and my body humming. I’d moved to Montclair, New Jersey, last year, trading The Gilded Spoon’s chaos for community college and a bookstore job, my jet-black hair now shoulder-length, my plus-sized curves in a simple white sundress that fluttered in the breeze. Tonight, Justin had asked me here, his text vague but warm: Meet me at our spot. 7 PM. My heart raced, a mix of love and anticipation, my skin tingling with the memory of his touch.The beach was quiet, the waves lapping gently

Early January 2026 cast a soft, golden light over Montclair’s quiet streets, the winter breeze whispering through bare maples, carrying the scent of frost and distant pine. It did little to soothe the ache in my chest, a heavy thud that had settled there a week ago when the TMZ photo of Justin with Claire shattered my world. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her sleek blonde hair catching the flash of cameras at a Manhattan café. His It’s just business, I love you texts had come fast and desperate, but they rang hollow against the churn of X posts: “Kayla Reed Dumped Again?” and “Justin Drake’s New Fling?” I’d fled his Greenwich penthouse that night, needing space, my suitcase packed in a haze of tears and disbelief. I hadn’t returned his calls, hadn’t opened most of his messages. The sapphire engagement ring he’d given me at Tod’s Point—its tiny sapphires glinting under the moonlight as he knelt—sat in a drawer in my Montclair apartment, its beauty now a painful reminder of fragi

June 2028 draped Greenwich, Connecticut, in a sultry summer warmth, the air heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly cut grass as I stepped onto the Greenwich Academy campus. My navy dress hugged my plus-sized curves, its soft cotton blend a careful choice after hours of indecision in my Montclair apartment, balancing elegance and comfort. My jet-black hair fell loose, brushing my shoulders, a rare break from the tight buns I wore during nursing shifts at Valley Hospital. Days had passed since I faced Justin in that Montclair café, his raw I never stopped loving you piercing the armor I’d built over three years as a nurse. At 24, I was far from the 21-year-old waitress I’d been when we met at the Greenwich charity auction in October 2024, his $100,000 bid for the sapphire necklace sparking our love. The memory of his hazel eyes, pleading in the café, lingered, as did the TMZ headline about his engagement to Claire Voss: Justin Drake and Claire Voss: Tech’s Power Couple E

Early July 2028 cast a soft, golden glow over Montclair, New Jersey, the summer heat clinging to the air, thick with the scent of blooming roses and warm asphalt as I sat in my cramped apartment, my nurse’s scrubs neatly folded on the couch after a grueling twelve-hour shift at Valley Hospital. The fluorescent lights of the ER, the beeping monitors, and the quiet gratitude of patients lingered in my mind, but they couldn’t drown out the storm in my chest. Two weeks had passed since the Hamptons vacation, where Justin’s kiss on Montauk’s windswept beach had reignited the spark we’d lost, his I love you echoing our Greenwich past—the auction, Tod’s Point, the Met Gala. The memory of our heated encounter in the guest cottage at the Drake family’s East Hampton estate burned like a fever: his hands sliding under my sundress, my skin alive under his touch, our desperate connection in that intimate, lavender-scented space. Now, a new fear gripped me, heavier than any headline. A missed per