Greta ushered the stylist in as she always did. I sat still while my makeup was applied, my hair curled and pinned carefully into place. The room smelled faintly of perfume and heat from the styling tools.
Before Greta left, she paused by the door. "Do you need anything else, young madam."
I hesitated, watching the stylist move along the clothing rack, her fingers brushing through fabrics as she considered options.
"Could you ask the chef to prepare a light soup for when I return," I said calmly.
Greta tilted her head. "Forgive me for intruding, but are you not going out to dinner tonight."
I laughed softly. "Trust me. It does not matter how well they cook. I know I will not be able to digest it."
She did not understand, but she nodded anyway. "I will have the chef prepare your favorite for when you return."
"Thank you. And please let Gabriel know I will be ready shortly."
