Chapter 126: The Haunting of Table Twelve
The maître d’ led us through the dimly lit restaurant with the kind of reverent hush usually reserved for funerals or five-star tasting menus.
The place was all gleaming marble and curated shadows, the kind of establishment where every bottle of wine had a backstory and a body count.
Cameron was beside me, fixing his cufflinks like he was about to walk into a press conference instead of a blind date. He’d been annoyingly chipper the whole ride here—making jokes, poking at my eternally grim expression and humming off-key to a song that wouldn’t stop playing.
"This is going to be a disaster," I muttered as we crossed the restaurant floor, following the hostess to our reserved table.
"That’s the spirit," Cameron said cheerfully. "Remember: glare, growl, radiate jealousy. You’re the reason no other man dares flirt with me."
I didn’t respond. My focus had shifted to the table ahead.
It was already occupied.
Seated at the far end, back straight, hands folded delicately on the tablecloth, was a woman.
From the angle, I couldn’t tell if she was asleep, meditating, or plotting a meeting to make contact with the dead.
The woman seated there didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a marriage prospect—not unless the prospective groom was a Victorian mortician or a vampire lord in desperate need of a wife.
Her hair—fiery ginger—fell like curtains around her face, almost entirely hiding her features. But it wasn’t just that.