Later that night, the sound of a key turning in the lock pulled me from my restless thoughts. The door creaked open, and Bell entered, carrying a tray of food and a neatly folded dress draped over her arm. Her expression was calm but guarded, giving away nothing of what might come next.
She set the tray on the small table by the window and placed the dress carefully on the bed. “Mr. Rodriguez will come for you soon,” she said, her tone measured and professional. “You need to prepare.”
I stared at her, the weight of her words settling heavily on me. “Prepare for what?” I asked, though I already had a sinking feeling I knew the answer.
Bell turned her gaze toward me, her expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, her tone firm but not unkind. “I’m just following his instruct
