"Have some milk," Maximilian said, holding out a tall glass like a peace offering.
Catherine was, unfortunately, a little hungry. She wasn't the type to starve herself out of principle, especially not when she'd done absolutely nothing today. Which, frankly, was a rare achievement.
She took a sip.
And froze.
Her face drained of color, as though the last surviving fragment of her soul had quietly packed its bags and left without saying goodbye.
"That's not milk," she said, slowly placing the glass on the coffee table with the kind of gravity usually reserved for last words and murder weapons.
"That's oat milk," Maximilian replied, smiling.
Her lips twitched.
It's what now?
"Go on," he continued pleasantly. "It's packed with nutrients and—"
"I admire the imagination," Catherine cut in sharply. "Truly. But I prefer my milk to originate from a living creature, not… a grain."
