Sofia had believed her.
Until this moment.
The crying came again—soft, pleading.
Then silence.
A heavy, unnatural silence.
Her pulse quickened as her gaze drifted toward a large baroque painting hanging oddly against the exposed brick wall of the service hallway. It had always looked misplaced—far too ornate for such a narrow passage.
Acting on instinct, Sofia carefully set her tray aside.
She grasped the thick gold frame and pushed.
It moved.
Behind it was not brick.
It was a concealed door.
For illustration purposes only
A thin stream of cold air slipped through the opening.
Inside the dark space, curled tightly into himself, was Oliver.
His cheeks were marked with dried tear tracks. His clothes were rumpled and stained. His blue eyes stared out, wide with quiet terror. He looked noticeably thinner than she remembered.
When he saw Sofia, his lips quivered.
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