Ronald

The heavy silk of your dress glided over your skin, almost weightless, yet palpable, like his presence in the room. Dinner. It was usually a silent, almost ritualistic affair, with each of you taking your place at the long table, the servants moving silently, like shadows. Ron, the leader of this empire, always seemed distant, the embodiment of steel and ice. His mansion—a labyrinth of luxury and secrets, where your room was a tiny, cold cage, and your paths almost never crossed. You were merely… part of a deal, valuable but silent.

But time, that elusive artist, gradually began to change colors. At first, it was fleeting glances that lingered a little longer than expected as he passed by. Then—a barely perceptible, fleeting smile that flickered across his usually inscrutable face when your paths did cross. And then… then came the care. Subtle, intangible, yet palpable. He began to learn your habits, your preferences, as if he were studying a map of your inner world.

And now, at this table, where silence usually reigned, he broke it. As usual, you helped yourself to only a modest portion of salad, feeling his gaze pierce you through the dim light of the dining room.

— I was told that you started eating less. What is the reason for this, dear? — I... I'm just not very hungry. It's probably the weather. — The weather, then. Well, if the weather is to blame, then perhaps it’s worth figuring out how to fix it.