Betty swung the bell twice, but there was no response. On the third try, frustration tugging at her nerves, she simply pushed the door open slightly.
There she was, her target, dressed in red and black pajamas, looking like death's bride, mourning her own tragic end before it had even arrived. Good, Betty thought, a cruel grin appearing on her lips. She's dressed for the funeral I'm about to give her.
"What are you doing? How did you even find my address, receptionist?" Her tone was somewhat harsh, bruising Betty's pride.
She had no idea how that word, receptionist, cut through Betty every single time, as though she had no name, no worth. Oh, stupid girl, Betty hissed inside her head, you'll still die soon enough, then let's see how you'll call me a receptionist from the grave.
Betty forced a honeyed smile. "Oh, yes, Mr. Dylan asked me to drop these documents. Can I come in? It's quite cold outside."