All Chapters of The Billionaire Waitress : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Early November 2028 cloaked New York City in a biting chill, the dim glow of a laptop casting stark shadows across Elise—Xiamond—in her cramped Brooklyn hideout, a decaying studio apartment far removed from the glittering lofts of her modeling days. Her blonde hair was scraped into a tight bun, her green eyes glinting with manic obsession, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she scoured X for traces of Justin and Kayla. The walls, a chaotic collage of photos—Justin’s sleek office, Kayla’s hospital shifts at Valley Hospital, their Barbados villa’s moonlit beach—charted her relentless vendetta. Since her failed seduction and brutal fight with Kayla in Justin’s office, where Kayla’s nurse-strong hands had pinned her, Elise’s hunger to shatter their love had only sharpened. Justin was mine, always mine, she thought, her nails digging into her palms, blood welling. Justin, her first love in 2023, had discarded her like a used prop, and Kayla, the nurse who’d stolen his heart at that

Mid-November 2028 buzzed with New York City’s frenetic energy, the cold biting my cheeks as Justin and I stepped into a sleek Manhattan studio for our first press tour stop, a morning show set ablaze with cameras and harsh lights. My jet-black hair was swept into a polished bun, my plus-sized curves encased in a tailored blazer and slacks, my nurse’s scrubs left behind in Montclair after a sleepless week at Valley Hospital. My silver bracelet—returned by Justin after my Catskills escape—bit into my wrist, a grounding weight against the chaos. The X post—Kayla Reed Pregnant—Hiding It from Justin Drake!—with my stolen Barbados ultrasound, captioned Our secret, had ripped through our lives, exposing my pregnancy before I could tell Justin. X posts raged: “Kayla’s secret baby drama!” and “Xiamond and Derek strike again!” Derek, my toxic ex, now Elise’s (Xiamond’s) ally, loomed like a vulture, their vendetta threatening our unborn child. They’ve stolen my truth, my joy, and now they’re com

January 2029 cloaked my Brooklyn loft in a gray, suffocating haze, the city’s distant pulse a bitter echo of the rage searing my chest. I, Elise—Xiamond—stood by the grimy window, its cracked frame rattling in the icy wind, my platinum hair matted from sleepless nights, my manicured nails chipped from clawing at a tattered Greenwich map pinned to the peeling plaster wall. Red ink circled The Gilded Spoon, the upscale Greenwich diner where Kayla Reed waitressed in 2025, her emerald dress at the October auction a taunt that still burned like acid in my veins. She’d stolen Justin Drake, my Justin, the man whose hazel eyes once held mine, not hers, in a fleeting blaze of passion. Her pregnancy, six months along, exposed by my ultrasound leak (November 2028), was a wound I’d never let close. Their Nexus gala (December 2028) mocked me, Kayla’s confidence a slap, my leaks—photos from the Greenwich auction (October 2025), the ultrasound, the gala caption Kayla’s last stand?—failing to shatter

Late January 2029 gripped Montclair, New Jersey, in a brittle frost, the air sharp as a blade. I, Elise—Xiamond—lurked in a shadowed alley near Kayla Reed’s apartment, my platinum hair matted under a black hoodie, my chipped nails clutching a burner phone. Her blue sedan sat parked on a quiet street, its brake lines freshly cut by Derek, my ally from Newark, his cruelty a mirror to my own. Kayla, her jet-black hair loose, her emerald dress from the Nexus gala (December 2028) still haunting me, carried her six-month pregnancy—my ultrasound leak (November 2028) exposed—like a trophy. She’d stolen Justin Drake, my Justin, whose hazel eyes once burned for me in 2023. Her poise at the Nexus follow-up event in Manhattan last week, her wariness foiling my SUV plan, was a lash across my scars. My leaks—Greenwich auction shots (October 2025), Catskills drones (September 2026), Barbados villa photos (October 2028), the ultrasound, the gala caption Kayla’s last stand?—hadn’t broken them. The bra

Late January 2028 wrapped Montclair, New Jersey, in a brittle frost, the air sharp enough to cut as I stood in our apartment’s kitchen, my jet-black hair spilling loose over a thick wool sweater, my plus-sized curves straining against the fabric, my six-month pregnancy—discovered in Barbados in August 2027, due late April or early May—a quiet weight beneath my heart. The Nexus event in New York last week (Chapter Thirty-Eight) had left me rattled, the black SUV circling the Flatiron ballroom, its tinted windows a ghost of the one I’d seen outside our building, paired with that cryptic note slipped under our door: “Watch your step.” Justin stood by the counter, his dark curls damp from a shower, his hazel eyes shadowed, his gray hoodie stretched over broad shoulders. The Nexus gala (December 2027) and press tour (November 2027) had cemented his app’s triumph, but the SUV and note gnawed at us both. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice low, pouring coffee into a chipped mug