Chapter 6 - THE GHOST IN THE DINING ROOM
The sky over the city had turned into a suffocating, ink-black canopy, spitting freezing rain against the windshield of Mason’s beat-up sedan.
We were parked in the alleyway two blocks behind The Meridian Room. Through the rain-streaked glass, we could see the glow of the flagship restaurant. Valets in dark coats hurried to open the doors of luxury sedans. The regional investors gala was in full swing.
I sat in the passenger seat, my black waitressing apron tied tightly around my waist. My nametag was pinned to my chest.
“This is insane, Lily,” Mason whispered, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. “If Greg or Vanessa sees you, they’ll call the police for trespassing. If Price’s security catches you near the frame…”
“I know the blind spots,” I interrupted quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the delivery entrance near the dumpsters. “Greg hasn't updated the kitchen security cameras in two years. I know exactly when the prep cooks take their smoke breaks. I can get onto the floor.”
Mason turned to me, his analytical mind warring with his absolute terror for my safety. He reached out and grabbed my hand. “You have ten minutes. If you aren’t out that back door by 8:15, I’m driving the car through the front window.”
I managed a weak, terrifying smile. “Just keep the engine running, Mase.”
I slipped out of the car into the freezing rain. The cold bit through my thin white blouse instantly, but the adrenaline surging through my veins kept me moving. I sprinted toward the delivery entrance, pressing my back against the wet brick wall.
I waited. Three minutes passed. Then, right on schedule, the heavy metal door swung open. Two dishwashers stepped out, shivering as they lit their cigarettes, complaining loudly about the volume of plates inside.
They turned their backs to the door to shield their lighters from the wind.
I slipped behind them, catching the heavy metal door just before it clicked shut.
The heat of the kitchen hit me like a physical blow. It was absolute, orchestrated chaos. Flames leaped from the stoves, chefs shouted orders in three different languages, and bussers sprinted past with stacks of dirty china.
I grabbed a large, empty silver serving tray from the dish pit and hoisted it onto my shoulder, instantly blending into the frantic ecosystem of the restaurant. If you walk fast enough and carry a tray, no one ever stops you in a commercial kitchen.
I pushed through the swinging doors into the main dining room.
The contrast was jarring. The noise of the kitchen vanished, replaced by the hushed hum of classical music, the clinking of crystal, and the low murmur of unimaginable wealth.
The dining room was packed. Men in bespoke tuxedos and women in designer gowns sat at the candlelit tables.
I kept my head down, moving swiftly along the perimeter wall, hiding behind the tall potted ferns and the shadows of the heavy velvet curtains.
My eyes locked onto my target: Table Twelve.
It was located in the elevated private alcove near the back of the room, separated by a low brass railing. Tonight, it wasn’t a dining table. It had been converted into a staging area for Charles Price’s upcoming private board meeting. Thick leather chairs were arranged around it, and two large, terrifying men in dark suits—Price’s private security—stood at the bottom of the alcove steps.
Directly behind the table, mounted flush against the dark walnut paneling, was the heavy brass frame holding the original Calder Diner menu.
My heart sank. I couldn’t just walk up to the frame. The security guards had a clear line of sight to the alcove.
I needed a distraction. A massive one.
I scanned the dining room. Vanessa Price was sitting at Table Four with her father, Charles, and three wealthy investors. Charles was holding court, a smug, aristocratic smile plastered across his face. Vanessa was sipping champagne, looking completely triumphant.
I needed to pull the security guards away from the alcove.
I walked over to the secondary service station near the wine cellar. Greg, my spineless manager, was standing there, frantically organizing a stack of dessert menus.
I took a deep breath, lowered the silver tray to cover my face, and deliberately bumped hard into a busser carrying a massive ice bucket full of chilling champagne bottles.
The collision was spectacular.
The ice bucket tipped. A cascade of freezing water, cubed ice, and three heavy glass bottles of Dom Pérignon crashed directly into Greg’s legs, shattering loudly on the marble floor.
Greg shrieked, jumping backward as freezing water soaked his expensive trousers. “What are you doing?! Watch where you’re going!”
The noise drew the attention of half the dining room. Including the two security guards at the alcove, who stepped forward instinctively to assess the threat to their boss.
It was a three-second window. It was all I had.
I abandoned the silver tray, ducked behind a massive structural pillar, and scrambled up the two steps into the private alcove.
I crawled under the heavy tablecloth of Table Twelve, hidden entirely from the dining room.
I was directly beneath the brass frame.
My hands shook violently as I reached up, feeling the bottom edge of the heavy frame. Arthur had told me the frame wasn’t bolted; it was secured by a hidden magnetic latch he had installed thirty years ago.
I ran my fingers along the bottom right corner, searching for the release groove.
Click.
The heavy brass frame swung outward like a small door on a hidden hinge.
I pulled myself up slightly, peering into the shallow dark space behind the menu.
Resting inside the hollow cavity was a thick, sealed manila envelope.
I snatched it. The paper felt heavy, authentic. The original share certificates. My mother’s legacy. The proof that could destroy Charles Price and save the empire.
I shoved the envelope deep into the waistband of my slacks, pulling my apron tightly over it.
I gently pushed the brass frame closed. The magnet caught with a soft thud.
I had done it. I just needed to crawl back out, wait for the security guards to turn away, and slip back into the kitchen.
But as I began to slide backward out from under the table, a pair of sharp, black stiletto heels stepped directly into the alcove, stopping inches from my face.
The heavy tablecloth was violently ripped away, exposing me completely.
Vanessa Price stood over me, her icy eyes burning with a mixture of shock and sheer, malicious glee.
“Well, well,” Vanessa sneered, looking down at me trembling on the floor. She snapped her fingers, and the two massive security guards instantly stepped into the alcove, blocking my only exit.
Vanessa leaned down, her gaze dropping to the unnatural bulge beneath my apron.
“You really are a stupid, arrogant little waitress,” Vanessa whispered, a terrifying smile spreading across her face. “Did you honestly think you could steal from my father?”
She reached into her designer clutch and pulled out a sleek, silver butane lighter.
May you like
With a flick of her thumb, a sharp blue flame erupted.
“Strip her,” Vanessa commanded the guards, holding the flame near my face. “Take the envelope. And then we are going to teach her exactly what happens to peasants who try to touch the throne.”
