"Licinia?" Caesar's voice broke the quiet hum of the grand dining hall, his brows rising in curiosity and mild disappointment. "I had been impatiently awaiting your surprise," he added, a note of confusion threading through his otherwise regal tone as he noticed her empty hands.
Licinia stepped forward, her stride hesitant, shoulders slightly hunched—as though weighed down by invisible chains. She had promised exquisite dishes, flavors meant to dazzle even the most seasoned palate, but now stood before them with nothing.
"I... I apologize," she stammered, her voice soft, barely carrying over the distant clatter of dishes. "It's not entirely ready. I didn't want to serve you something... subpar. But I swear, I'll make something even greater for you soon."
The excuse sounded rehearsed, hollow, yet it was the safest path she could take.
