A Meal and a Mask

The door creaked open, and Ramona stiffened. She had been curled up on the plush bed, staring out of the large windows of Killian’s penthouse, mind lost in thoughts of escape.

She expected him. Or maybe one of his men.

But instead, a woman walked in, holding a silver tray.

Ramona sat up slightly, wary. The woman looked to be in her mid-forties, dressed in a crisp black uniform, her dark hair tied into a neat bun. There was nothing particularly threatening about her—if anything, she had the air of someone who had been working in service for years.

“I brought you dinner,” the woman said with a pleasant smile, setting the tray on the bedside table.

Ramona didn’t respond immediately. Her stomach clenched at the smell—warm, rich soup, a side of bread, some kind of roasted meat. But she had long since learned not to trust anything freely given.