My Boss Made Me Sext Her Billionaire Fiancé Chapter 12
XZ (Xander’s POV)
Xander:
Lindy doesn’t know I’m in New York.
I fly out three days after she moves. I don’t message her. I just — watch. From across the campus quad. From a coffee shop window.
She laughs with new friends. She walks fast, coffee in hand, notebooks under her arm. Her hair’s longer now. She smiles at strangers.
I’ve never seen this version of her.
She’s *free*.
One night she goes out to dinner with her grad school cohort. A tall guy — some senior — leans in and says, “Lindy, I drove tonight. I’ll take you home.”
She almost nods.
Then her head turns. Sharp. Like she felt something.
She scans the sidewalk. I duck behind the corner just in time.
Every time I think about walking up to her, I remember her voice in that VIP room. Please just let me go.
So I don’t.
I stay for four days. I leave without saying a word.
—
Back at the office, the annual company anniversary is coming up. My assistant slides a folder across my desk.
“Sir. The online lottery giveaway. Grand prize — one hundred grand.”
I think about Lindy working double shifts. Lindy in the candy store at nine at night with an empty stomach.
“Add another grand prize.”
He blinks. “Same amount, sir? One hundred thousand?”
“Ten million. From my personal account.”
“…*Sir?*”
I don’t repeat myself.
—
I hear from her roommate’s cousin’s friend, three days later, that Lindy won.
She screamed. Cried. Bought her roommate dinner.
She never once suspected.
Good.
—
A few weeks after that, a listing pops up on a resale site. My scout flags it instantly.
A bunny plushie keychain. Limited edition. Discontinued years ago. Auction price on the market: six figures.
The seller’s location: New York.
The seller’s photo of the item — I’d know those crooked ears anywhere.
I buy it in one click.
The seller offers free shipping. Barely says a word. Efficient. Cold.
I type before I can stop myself:
“Why are you letting it go?”
A pause. Then:
“Don’t want it anymore.”
I sit at my desk. Read those four words. Read them again.
I type back:
“Okay. Got it.”
—
Years later.
I’m on a business trip. A different city.
A kid — maybe ten, skinny, dirty jacket — tugs on my sleeve outside a diner.
“Sir. Please. Can you spare something for food?”
I look down at him. Cold. About to walk past.
Then my eyes drift to my car window. The little bunny keychain hangs from the rearview.
And suddenly — a memory. Sharp as glass.
A girl on a curb. Same age. Same tired eyes. Asking for fifty bucks for schoolbooks.
I stop.
I pull out my wallet. Hand the kid a hundred.
His face lights up. He darts into the diner. Comes back with a bowl of noodles in a to-go cup — and my change.
“Thank you, sir. I only needed one meal.”
He stuffs the bills back into my hand and runs off.
I stand there. Change in my palm.
I go to shove it in my pocket — and something makes me stop.
I pull the bills out again. Flip through them.
One fifty-dollar bill. Old. Creased soft. Been in circulation for years.
I turn it over.
In the bottom left corner, tiny handwriting. Faded almost to nothing.
Two letters:
XS.
I stare.
The bill blurs in my hand.
Years and years ago. A skinny freshman crying quietly on a curb. Fifty bucks for textbooks. I gave her a hundred. She ran, broke it, came back, pressed one back into my hand.
What’s your name? I’ll pay you back.
Xander Shaw.
She didn’t know how to spell it.
So she wrote it the only way she could remember.
XZ.
Fate started us in a place I’d already forgotten.
Fate closed us out with a bowl of noodles and a fifty-dollar bill.
I stand on the sidewalk a long time. The bunny swings gently in the car window.
Everything traded. Everything paid.
Even. At last.
—End—