He Scammed The Wrong Paralegal

Summary

"$568.20."

The server handed me the leather folio, her smile tight, practiced, and entirely professional.

I stared at the empty seat across from me.

Five minutes ago, Preston had excused himself to use the restroom.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice steady. "But the gentleman..."

"He’s gone, ma’am." The server’s eyes shifted away, unable to hold my gaze. "Out the back exit."

I looked down at the itemized receipt. The Seafood Tower. The Dry-Aged Porterhouse. The bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet. All his choices.

My phone buzzed against the white tablecloth.