The Milk Witch

Chapter One: The Interview

The rain had not relented for even a single hour that morning. It hammered against the ancient stone arches and towering Gothic windows of the Ward estate with relentless, rhythmic insistence, like a thousand soft fists beating against the walls of a tomb.

The sound created a heavy velvet cocoon of isolation, muffling the outside world and transforming the sprawling manor into something almost otherworldly — cut off, brooding, and steeped in sorrow.

Water streamed down the tall leaded-glass panes in continuous silvery sheets, distorting the view of the overgrown gardens and the distant gray hills beyond into blurred, dreamlike shapes.

The storm seemed determined not only to keep the world out, but to trap Lucien Ward inside with his grief, forcing him to confront the vast emptiness that had swallowed his life whole.

Lucien Ward stood motionless at the tall window of his secondfloor study, a heavy crystal tumbler of untouched whiskey growing warm in his hand.

The amber liquid caught the weak, storm-filtered gray light and cast faint golden reflections across the dark oak paneling.

Behind him, the room was a shrine to both old money and fresh devastation: rows of heavy leather-bound books that had remained untouched for months, antique furniture polished to a mirror shine by staff who moved like silent ghosts through the halls, and the baby monitor on his massive mahogany desk emitting soft, intermittent cries that cut through the quiet at irregular intervals.

He no longer looked at the monitor. He barely registered the sound anymore. The cries had become background noise — a constant, haunting reminder of the tiny life he was failing so completely.

Dahlia was only three months old, yet she already seemed to sense the suffocating void her mother’s sudden death had left behind.

The absence lingered in every corner of the house like invisible smoke, thick and choking, turning once-warm spaces into cold monuments of memory and regret.

Lucien took a slow, measured breath, his broad shoulders tense beneath the rumpled white dress shirt he had worn for the past two days straight.

At thirty-eight, he had built a corporate empire from nothing through sheer force of will, ruthless negotiation, and unyielding discipline. Markets had bent to his decisions. Boardrooms had fallen silent when he spoke. Yet here he stood, unable to quiet the cries of his own daughter. The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

Downstairs, the heavy front door creaked open with a sound that carried clearly up through the grand staircase like a warning bell.

“She’s here,” came the clipped, professional voice of his assistant, followed by the sharp echo of retreating footsteps across the marble foyer.

Lucien turned slowly from the window. He didn’t know why he was still bothering with interviews. He had already spoken with seven candidates in the past ten days.

Each one had arrived armed with the same stiff smiles and rehearsed condolences. “So sorry for your loss, Mr. Ward.” The words were meaningless. They only made the silence feel heavier, sharper, more unbearable.

What he needed wasn’t sympathy or cold efficiency. He needed someone who could exist inside this mausoleum without adding to its weight — someone whose presence might blunt the sharp edges of grief rather than sharpen them further.

The knock on the study door was soft, almost hesitant.

“Come in.”

The door opened.

“Mister Ward?”

She stepped inside and paused just past the threshold, as if she could physically feel the oppressive gravity of the room pressing down upon her.

A simple navy dress, damp from the rain, clung modestly yet alluringly to the curve of her waist and hips. A worn leather satchel hung from one shoulder. Dark hair fell in wet waves around a pale, striking face, framing sea-glass green eyes that met his gaze with an unsettling steadiness. She carried no nervous fidgeting, no forced smile, no rush to fill the silence. She simply stood there, rainwater still dripping steadily from the hem of her coat onto the antique Persian rug.

Lucien studied her for a long moment. Most applicants immediately launched into explanations or overly polished resumes. She did not. Her presence felt strangely grounding in a house that had become little more than a tomb of memories and regret.

“Sit.”

She obeyed without question, lowering herself into the leather chair across from his desk with composed, almost unnatural calm. Her posture was straight but not rigid. There was a natural poise to her that stood out immediately.

Lucien remained standing for several seconds before finally taking his own seat behind the desk. “You’ve worked in homes like this before?”

“I’ve cared for people,” she replied simply. “And for babies.”

His throat tightened painfully. He lifted the whiskey to his lips and took a slow sip, the burn providing a brief, welcome distraction from the ache in his chest. “Do you have children of your own?”

For the first time, her gaze flickered. Just for a heartbeat. A shadow passed across her sea-glass eyes. “I did,” she said softly.

“She was stillborn. Three months ago.”

The words landed heavily between them, like a stone dropped into still water. Lucien felt something deep inside his chest crack open — a raw, jagged pain that mirrored his own so perfectly it stole his breath for a moment.

He searched her face for tears, for trembling lips, for any visible sign of the grief he knew too intimately. There was none. Only quiet, steady acceptance.

“And yet you’re here,” he said after a long silence.

“The silence is worse,” Maren answered. Her voice remained steady, but there was a profound depth to it that suggested she understood exactly what kind of silence he meant — the kind that echoed with loss, guilt, and loneliness.

“I need something to do with my hands. Something meaningful to care for.”

Lucien leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her more closely. “What about the father?”

“He is out of my life forever,” she said with quiet finality. “Another country. And he will never return.”