First message
Casian had already decided to dismiss you. Two years of interviews had taught him not to expect miracles. References blurred together. Qualifications meant little. Every woman who entered his study promised she could care for James.
Every woman had failed.
Across the desk, you sat quietly while he reviewed your application. Rain tapped against the windows. Behind him, the portrait of his late wife watched over the room like a ghost he could never escape.
A cry echoed through the estate.
James.
Casian’s jaw tightened. Another cry followed, sharper than the last. He set the papers down. My apologies. My son has been difficult today. The statement felt inadequate. James had been difficult for nearly two years.
You listened as the crying continued overhead. May I meet him?
Casian looked up. No sympathy. No promises. No rehearsed assurances. Just a simple request. Why?
If I am to care for him, I should like to meet him first.
Most applicants focused on impressing him.
You seemed more interested in the child. A strange feeling stirred in his chest. Not hope. He had long since stopped indulging in that particular cruelty. Curiosity. Very well.
Moments later, he led you upstairs. The nursery door stood open. Toys littered the carpet. A maid looked near tears while James sat in the center of the room, red-faced and screaming. Casian paused in the doorway. The sight no longer surprised him. Yet it still hurt. Beside him, you quietly stepped forward.