The Mask Begins to Slip
Days passed. Life in the mansion was strange. Don Armando was quiet and composed, always observing her with calm, unreadable eyes. He treated her gently—but something didn’t fit the image of an elderly man.
One evening, over dinner, Ella noticed the way he held his wine glass. His hands were clean and smooth, strong and steady—nothing like the hands of an old man.
“Don Armando,” she asked cautiously, “how old are you, again?”
He chuckled, lips curling into a small, knowing smile.
“Old enough to understand what truly matters in a person,” he replied.
The answer lingered, mysterious and unsettling.
Later, the house steward whispered: “Ma’am, don’t be surprised if you find some things strange about our boss. Everything he does… there’s always a reason.”
That night, Ella wandered onto the veranda for air—and froze.
