Page 2 of The Reaper
1
MEGHAN
The waterfront had gone quiet by the time I unlocked the side gate and stepped into the courtyard.
Charleston had a way of holding still after dark, like the city itself was waiting for something to shift. The air hung thick over the Battery—salt-laced, unmoving, heavy in a way that settled into your bones.
Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was me—standing there in the heels I’d slipped on to walk the dining room, after hours in clogs behind the line, still wearing a linen apron and listening for something I couldn’t name.
Promenade’s facade looked untouched. The gas lanterns flickered low against the white columns. A few candles still burned in the dining room beyond the front windows, casting soft golden light across the hardwood floors and empty tables.
The night’s service was over, every dish served, every compliment accepted with a smile. Staff gone. Kitchen spotless. Guests content. I should have felt proud.
I did. And I didn’t.
I stepped back inside and slipped the bolt on the door behind me. The place was too quiet without the usual movement—the precision of plating, the subtle rhythm of feet on old wood, the simmer of saucepans behind the pass. In stillness, the restaurant became something else entirely. A shrine. A cage. A goddamn cathedral to everything I’d built with my bare hands.
They said you couldn’t build a legacy on obsession. But obsession was the only thing I trusted.
Upstairs, I could’ve collapsed into the cool sheets of my third-floor apartment and shut off my brain, if only for a few hours. Instead, I moved on autopilot. Pulled a fresh bottle of Pinot from the climate cabinet, popped the cork with practiced ease, poured a glass I had no intention of drinking.
My feet carried me to the long, narrow window overlooking the harbor, where I leaned against the frame and stared out past the historic rooftops and the line of palmettos swaying in the slow breeze. It was beautiful here. But nothing about it was soft.
The Battery had teeth. People forgot that.
My phone buzzed in the apron pocket still tied at my waist. I didn’t answer. I already knew who it was. Finn Carroll, checking in. He always did after I closed alone.
If anyone understood my rules, it was him. He never overstayed his welcome, never made it weird. Just a simpleAre you good?followed by a thumbs-up emoji when I replied.
Tonight, I didn’t reply.
I turned from the window and walked back down to the kitchen, half-hoping I’d forgotten something—anything to justify the restlessness in my limbs. But everything was in order. The burners were cool. The knives aligned. The sous vide bath had been emptied and dried. Each prep station wiped down twice. Even the walk-in, which I kept stocked with clockwork precision, looked smug in its perfection.
Still, I found myself pacing, retracing steps I’d walked a hundred times—line, pass, dish return, cooler, and back again. Like muscle memory wasn’t enough anymore. Like I needed friction. Resistance. A crack in the surface.
Charlotte Duffy’s voice echoed in my head. “We got a weird one today.”
The man had called during service hours, ignored every protocol, and told her he’d figure it out. No name. No callback number. Just … presence.
I hated that it lingered.
I hated more that it stuck with me.
There was no room in my life for that kind of unknown. Everything about Promenade was precision, by design. The exclusivity wasn’t marketing—it was insulation. No walk-ins. No uninvited press. No chaos. We didn’t even take direct reservations. You needed a referral. A password. An understanding of the unspoken rules.
This place wasn’t for tourists or influencers or the casually curious. It was for people who knew what restraint cost—and were willing to pay for it. Every plate served at Promenade was a war won. Every service a battle survived.
And still, one anonymous man had found a way to crawl under my skin.
I refilled my glass, took a sip this time, and let the wine settle across my tongue. It was clean, tight, expensive. I felt none of it.
Before I could spiral further, the back door creaked open behind me.
I turned sharply.
Finn stepped inside, carrying his jacket over one shoulder and a smirk on his face.
“You didn’t answer,” he said.
