Chapter 1: The Pregnant Maid’s Claim

The new maid was one of those women from another world—a transmigrator, though most folks around here wouldn’t know to call her that.

You could spot it in the way she moved—always a little too sure of herself, always just a bit too clever for her own good. She didn’t just clean; she cased the place, eyes darting over every antique vase and faded family photo. There was something off about her, something that didn’t fit. Like she was wearing the wrong skin. Sometimes I wondered if she even noticed.

She secretly spat into the toilet water, rigged up some kind of plastic tubing—don’t ask me how, she did it—and managed to get herself pregnant. The whole thing was so bizarre, I had to blink twice just to believe it.

No one saw her at it, of course. But later, when the house was quiet and the pipes creaked, I’d catch her glancing at the bathroom door, a sly glint in her eyes. Sometimes, I’d swear I heard her laugh through the walls. The sort of girl who’d always find a way to play the system, no matter what world she landed in.

Soon after, she showed up, belly round, claiming she was family. Just like that.

She wore a cheap maternity dress—the kind you find on clearance at Target—but she strutted into the living room like the carpet rolled out for her. She paused, one hand on her hip, surveying the room. Her smile was all teeth—sharp, hungry, as if she was ready to eat us alive. She flashed a look that said she could sniff out every secret in the room and use it to her advantage.

I sat there, stone-faced. The young lord—who’d never had a kid of his own—couldn’t hide his delight. Not for a second.

He tried to keep his composure, but his eyes kept flicking to her belly, like he was seeing the future he’d always wanted right there in front of him. The room felt colder. The old grandfather clock ticked just a little too loud. I felt the chill settle in my bones.

The transmigrator smirked and said, "Ma’am, for the sake of the young lord’s heir, please let me have this child."

She said it like she was doing us a favor—her tone syrupy sweet. But there was a flash in her eyes. She tipped her chin up, almost daring me to say no, like she’d already won.

But she didn’t notice the way the young lord stared, his gaze tense and restless, at her belly. His fingers twitched. There was something raw there, more than just nerves.

He wasn’t hoping for a son. He was craving skillet cornbread.

He looked at her the same way he looked at a perfect golden loaf—hungry, expectant, and just a little bit desperate. Honestly, the man had his priorities. Family wasn’t always at the top of the list.

The first batch, after all, was always the best.

It was tradition in this house: the first skillet cornbread of the season, served piping hot with honey butter. The scent would fill every room. Nothing ever tasted quite as good after that. That was just how it was, year after year.