The Billionaire Waitress
But as the doors opened to his floor, a woman’s laugh—low, sultry—stopped me cold.
I stepped into the glass-walled office, my sneakers silent on the polished floor. Justin sat at his desk, his navy shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his face tense. A woman leaned over him, her blonde hair cascading, her tight dress accentuating her slim frame. She touched his arm, her voice honeyed. “Justin, we could be so good together,” she purred, her fingers lingering. My blood boiled—she was the leaker, the one who’d haunted us since 2025, her face now revealed, her green eyes predatory. She’s the one—Xiamond, the texts, the leaks, I realized, my heart pounding. The cryptic messages, the hospital shot, the
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