Page 87 of The Reaper
She looked at me, searching, and for a moment, I thought she’d lean in, let me hold her. But she stepped back.
“I need to finish cleaning. Stay if you want.”
I stayed, watching her move, her hands steady as she polished the counter, her world intact but under siege.
My phone buzzed—Elias, a single line:Found a lead. Checking now.
My pulse kicked, but I didn’t tell her. Not yet. I’d find this bastard, end him, and keep her safe, no matter what it cost. But the clash was coming, her love for Promenade against my need to protect her, and I wasn’t sure we’d both come out whole.
28
MEGHAN
By nine a.m. the next morning, the air was already too hot, too thick with the metallic tang of knives on steel and the faint burn of the oven warming in the corner.
The kitchen had always been my church.
Not today.
My knives were lined up like soldiers along my station, their edges catching the thin wash of sunlight that slanted in through the high windows. Normally, the sight grounded me. Today, it just reminded me of everything I had to hold together with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Carly was at the mixer, humming under her breath as she folded sugar into stiffening egg whites. Michael was breaking down a side of salmon, his knife strokes sure and steady. Alba was setting the dining room with her usual precise grace, every glass stem aligned, every napkin folded like origami.
And me? I was pretending I still knew how to breathe.
The prep list in front of me might as well have been a death sentence. Every item felt like a test I couldn’t fail, not whenCaleb’s voice from last night kept echoing in my head—what if we close for a while, buy some time?
I hadn’t been able to sleep after that, not with the words clawing under my ribs. Close Promenade? It wasn’t just a restaurant. It was my life. My parents’ dream. My penance.
I pulled the crate of baby fennel toward me, the scent sharp and clean. My hands moved on autopilot—trim, halve, blanch—while my brain ran loops around that window boarded up like a wound. I could still see the note in my mind.You don’t deserve their praise.
My jaw tightened. Whoever had left that note didn’t understand. I wasn’t chasing praise for myself. Every star, every review, every perfect plate—it was for them. For the people who had poured everything into Meggie’s, only to watch it go up in flames. For the parents who’d gotten in the car one rainy night to pick up their daughter and never came home.
A clatter jolted me out of the spiral.
Michael froze, a slippery arc of salmon skin hanging from his fingers, the rest of the fish sprawled across the floor. The skin had caught on the edge of the counter as he turned, sending it sliding.
I closed my eyes for half a beat. “Michael?—”
“Sorry, chef,” he said quickly, already crouching to gather it up.
“It’s ruined,” I snapped. “We can’t serve that now. That was for tonight’s feature.”
His face fell. “I’ll run to the market?—”
“It’s not just about buying more,” I bit out. “Do you know how hard it is to get fish like that on a day’s notice? We had it arranged with the supplier for weeks.”
My voice sharpened, the words spilling faster, hotter. “Do you think I just walk into a market, point at whatever looks shiny on ice, and call it a day? No. I’ve spent years building thoserelationships—early mornings at the docks, standing ankle-deep in meltwater, shaking hands with men who’ve been hauling nets longer than I’ve been alive. You don’t get the best fish by luck. You get them because the captains know your name, because they trust you’ll treat what they pulled from the ocean with the respect it deserves. That kind of trust doesn’t come overnight, and it sure as hell doesn’t get fixed by swiping a card at Whole Foods.”
I slammed the knife down, the blade ringing off the cutting board. “That fish was promised to me because I earned it. Because I showed up, season after season, buying even when the catch was lean, paying fair when others tried to haggle them into the ground. And now it’s ruined. Not just tonight’s feature—ruined. Weeks of work, a reputation I’ve guarded like a hawk, tossed on the floor like it means nothing.”
Caleb’s low voice came from the doorway. “Meg.”
I didn’t look at him. If I did, I’d see the calm in his eyes and want to smash it to pieces. My pulse was already climbing, heat rushing to my face.
“It’s one thing after another,” I muttered, grabbing the prep list and slamming it back on the counter. “Windows breaking, notes on my tables, now this. Do you think Michelin inspectors care if my supplier can’t get me another fish until next week?”
The room went still. Carly’s whisk slowed, the hum in her throat dying away.
