Thud. Thud.
A knock broke the silence, sharp and official. It wasn't his knock—his was a single, confident tap. This was different. It didn't ask. It announced.
My heart, which had been a trapped bird in my chest, went still. He sent someone.
"Who is that?" My voice was thin, scratched raw from silent screaming.
The door opened without waiting for permission.
Two women in identical dove-gray maid uniforms stood there, their faces smooth and expressionless as porcelain. Each held a woven basket. One carried thick, fluffy towels. The other held… trowels? No, not trowels. Small, polished wooden boxes. The sight was absurd and deeply wrong.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," they said in unison, dipping into shallow, synchronized bows. "Dinner will be served shortly."
Dinner. The word landed like a stone in my gut. The last thing I wanted was to sit across from him under candlelight, with the taste of blood still haunting my mouth and the sound of a gunshot echoing in my bones.
