The Shadow (Dominion Hall #14)

Chapter 1

JOY

The bell above the door chimed its soft, glassy note, and for a second I let it make me believe in order.

That a day could be as simple as someone comes in, someone leaves happy.

That a bouquet could fix what was broken.

That I could.

“Welcome in!” I called, because my momma had trained the words into my bones the same way she’d trained me to deadhead roses and strip thorns without looking.

The shop smelled like promise—eucalyptus and gardenias, damp moss, citrus peel.

We kept the air cooler than most places downtown because flowers were temperamental like that.

They needed stability. They needed someone to notice the first sign of wilting and do something about it before it became irreversible.

I understood that.

Sunlight spilled in through the front windows, catching on the glass vases lined like soldiers on the shelves.

Outside, King Street was already alive with Charleston’s particular kind of bustle—tourists drifting like they had nowhere to be, locals moving like they did.

My reflection in the window looked small against the brightness.

Blonde hair in a loose braid. Cotton dress.

Hands stained faintly no matter how much I washed them.

Joy McKinley.

A name my momma had chosen like a prayer.

I pushed the thought away and focused on the work in front of me.

A ribbon order for a bride who wanted “blush but not too pink,” an anniversary arrangement with hydrangeas and white ranunculus, two dozen mini bud vases for a restaurant event tonight.

I had a list taped to the counter—color-coded, of course.

“Joy?” My assistant, Britney, called from the back room. “Did you check the invoice for the peonies?”

“Yes,” I said automatically, then softened it with a smile she couldn’t see. “The peonies are priced wrong again. They billed us for the premium stems.”

There was a pause, then the sound of her laugh—half amused, half exasperated. “Sounds about right.”

I slid my laptop closer, the screen already filled with neatly arranged columns. Most girls I knew—girls I’d grown up with on Wadmalaw Island, girls who’d gone to school with me at College of Charleston—had been good at things that shined in obvious ways.

I was good at numbers.

It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was the reason this shop existed.

I’d gone to CofC without a grand plan, just a quiet sense that I wanted to understand how things worked. Business sounded practical, maybe even dull, until I realized how much I liked the order of it.

My first accounting class surprised me. Numbers didn’t lie.

They showed you what was possible, what was working, and what needed fixing.

And I liked knowing the difference.

I’d always had a knack for it—balancing the books on Momma’s kitchen table when I was barely twelve, counting out tips in Mason jars at the farmers market on Saturdays, making little charts of what sold best in spring versus fall.

When my parents talked about expanding off the island, about opening a shop downtown where tourists and wedding planners and the women who wore pearls on grocery runs would see our work … I was the one who made it possible.

I didn’t just want beauty. I wanted profit margins.

And I loved my family enough to want both.

I clicked through the invoice, highlighting the incorrect line items and drafting an email that was firm but polite. I didn’t have it in me to be sharp with people, even when they deserved it. That was the thing about being sweet. People assumed it meant you weren’t strong.

They didn’t realize sweetness could be stubborn as hell.

The bell chimed again.

A couple stepped inside—mid-forties, matching wedding bands, a kind of weary love between them that made my chest hurt a little. The woman drifted toward the cooler, her eyes soft as she took in the white lilies. The man stood near the door like he was afraid to break something.

“Hi,” the woman said, smiling at me. “Do you do arrangements for anniversaries?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping around the counter. “What are we celebrating?”

“Twenty years,” she said, and her voice did something tender when she looked at him. “He still buys me flowers every year.”

He cleared his throat. “She deserves them.”

“That’s beautiful,” I managed, and I meant it. “Do you have a favorite flower?”

The woman’s eyes went distant. “My grandmother loved gardenias.”

“Gardenias,” I repeated, like I was tasting the word. “Okay. We can do something classic. White gardenias, soft greenery, maybe a touch of blush rose if you want warmth. Gardenias are … they’re romantic.”

The woman laughed softly. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

I moved through the cooler with practiced ease, selecting blooms that would hold through the afternoon heat. I set them on the counter, began stripping leaves, trimming stems at an angle. My hands knew what to do even when my heart wandered.

Because while I built romance for other people—weddings and anniversaries and apologies wrapped in ribbon—my own life felt like it existed behind glass.

I had crushes. Of course, I did. I wasn’t made of stone.

But every time I let myself want someone, it ended the same way.

He’d smile at me. He’d say I was sweet. He’d call me “a good girl,” like I was something you patted on the head and kept safe.

Then he’d choose someone louder.

Someone with eyes that said she’d been kissed in dark corners and liked it. Someone who looked like she belonged in a story.

I didn’t blame them.

I didn’t even resent the girls.

Mostly, I liked being the steady presence behind the scenes—the hands that shaped beauty and then stepped back to let it shine. Flowers were meant to be noticed. I was happy just knowing I’d helped bring them to life.

By the time I wrapped the anniversary bouquet, the gardenias sat lush and heavy at the center, white and creamy, their scent making the whole shop feel special even though it was just another humid Charleston morning.

The man watched quietly as I tied the ribbon.

“She’s going to love it,” he said.

My chest squeezed again. “I hope so.”

He paid, tucked the bouquet like it was fragile treasure, and the couple left with the bell’s soft chime following them out.

I stared at the empty spot on the counter where the bouquet had been.

Twenty years.

I couldn’t even imagine it.

Not because I didn’t want it—God, I wanted it. I wanted the kind of love that made someone buy gardenias out of habit, out of devotion, out of deep knowing. I wanted to be someone’s choice, not their afterthought.

But love felt … complicated. Dangerous.

Not in the thrilling, midnight-kiss way the books promised. More like a foreign language I’d never learned, one everyone else spoke fluently while I stood on the edge of the conversation smiling politely and pretending I understood.

I’d never had a steady boyfriend. Not really. A few awkward dates. A few almosts. A guy in college who’d held my hand once at a party and made me blush so hard I’d wanted to disappear, and then he’d been gone the next week with a brunette from his philosophy class.

I’d told myself it didn’t matter. That I was focused on the shop. That I had bigger priorities.

That I wasn’t lonely.

Lying was so easy when you did it gently.

The bell chimed again, sharper this time, and I looked up with my customer smile ready.

Some people stepped into a room and blended right in. Others carried themselves with a quiet confidence that altered the space around them, like gravity pulling everything just a little closer.

She walked in like she belonged wherever she stood.

Tall. Elegant. Skin warmed by sunlight. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek, effortless style that made her cheekbones impossible to ignore.

She wore a pale blouse and fitted pants that looked simple until you realized how perfectly they fit, like they’d been chosen with intention rather than effort.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate. She took in the shop with a calm, assessing glance, as if she already understood what mattered.

And somehow, without meaning to, I found myself standing straighter.

“Hi,” I said, voice softer than usual. “Welcome.”

The woman’s gaze lifted, met mine, and something about it felt … attentive. Like she wasn’t just seeing the shop. She was seeing me.

“Joy McKinley?” she asked.

My pulse jumped. “Yes. That’s me.”

“I’m Portia Dane.” She said it like it was a simple fact, not a title that carried weight. She stepped closer to the counter, her perfume mixing with the florals in the air—something expensive and clean, like rain on stone. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

“Oh.” I smiled, a little quick, a little reflexive. “Of course. We’re—well, we’re open.” I gestured vaguely at the shop like that explained everything. “How can I help?”

Portia’s mouth curved, just slightly, like she found my nerves more endearing than inconvenient. “I’m looking for flowers,” she said, glancing past me toward the cooler. “But not just any flowers.”

That, at least, was familiar ground. I relaxed a notch, letting my hands rest on the counter instead of fidgeting with ribbon spools. “You came to the right place.”

She stepped closer, studying the arrangements on display with a thoughtful expression, not the distracted skim most people gave before pulling out their phones. She noticed details—the texture of the greenery, the way colors shifted from one bloom to the next.

“I’ve heard your family grows most of these yourselves,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, warmth blooming in my chest. “Our farm’s on Wadmalaw Island. We grow seasonally—mostly heirloom varieties. What we don’t grow, we source locally, when we can.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Impressive.”

I ducked my head, smiling. Compliments never quite knew where to land with me, but this one felt earned. “Thank you.”

She turned back to me then, leaning her hip lightly against the counter like she had all the time in the world. “I’m planning a wedding.”

My heart did a small, happy flip. Weddings were my favorite—not because of the drama or the gowns or the Pinterest boards, but because they were hopeful. People came in believing in something. I liked being part of that.

“That’s exciting,” I said. “Do you have a date?”

“Soon,” she said. “And not here.”

“Oh.” I tilted my head. “Destination?”

“Montana.”

The word landed heavier than I expected. Big sky. Open land. So far from Charleston’s humidity and moss-draped oaks that it felt like another country entirely.

“I want to bring a little piece of Charleston with me,” Portia continued. “Something living. Something that feels … rooted.”

I thought of our fields on Wadmalaw. Rows of blooms bending toward the sun. Momma’s hands in the soil. Daddy fixing irrigation lines before dawn. Flowers that carried the island’s quiet in their stems.

“That’s a lovely idea,” I said honestly. “What did you have in mind?”

Her gaze sharpened—not unkindly, but with intent. “Is it possible to fly flowers out? To have them used in Montana?”

I blinked. Once. Twice.

“Fly them?” I echoed.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “If I provide the plane.”

The shop seemed to tilt, just a little. Not in a dizzy way—more like the world had quietly expanded while I wasn’t looking.

“I—” I paused, gathering my thoughts the way I always did when numbers gave way to logistics. “It depends on the varieties. Some flowers travel better than others. We’d need to time the harvest carefully. Temperature control is critical. Hydration, pressure changes, packaging—”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Portia interrupted gently. “Not yes or no. Just … how.”

I felt my smile widen, genuine now. “Then yes,” I said. “It’s possible. With planning.”

Her eyes lit, just enough to tell me this mattered. “Good.”

She reached into her bag and set a sleek card on the counter. Dominion Hall was embossed at the top in understated lettering that somehow still managed to feel imposing.

“I’d like you to come by,” she said. “We can talk details. Timing. What you’d recommend.”

I picked up the card, my fingers brushing the edge like it might disappear if I didn’t hold it just right. “I’d be happy to.”

Portia studied me for a moment longer, her expression shifting into something softer. “You care about your work.”

I nodded. “Very much.”

“That shows,” she said. Then she straightened, the meeting clearly concluded in her mind. “I’ll be in touch.”

She turned toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back. “And for what it’s worth—I think you’d be perfect for this.”

The bell chimed as she left, the sound lingering after her like a held breath.

I stood there for a moment, the card warm in my hand, my heart beating a little faster than it had all morning.

Montana.

A plane.

Flowers grown on Wadmalaw Island, carried across the country to stand witness to a promise.

I set the card carefully beside my laptop, right between the invoices and the ribbon samples, and smiled to myself.

Maybe love felt complicated. Maybe it felt like a language I didn’t quite speak.

But this—this I understood.