He Scammed The Wrong Paralegal
Language: en
"$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. A text from Preston: [Thanks for…