One Night with the Virgin Prince

Chapter 2

“If you want your mother’s medicine, you’ll do what we say.”

Juliana’s voice sliced through the air like a guillotine — elegant, sharp, final.

Amira didn’t flinch. She couldn’t afford to. Not when her hands trembled from rage she couldn’t express and fear she couldn’t escape. Behind her eyes, memories flickered — not of palaces or diamonds, but of simpler days when her father’s laughter echoed through their modest home, and her mother’s arms were strong enough to hold the world.

Before it all fell apart.

Before the bank took their land. Before the family name, once whispered with respect in the eastern hills of Zandria, was reduced to a hushed warning: “Don’t end up like the Benjamins.”

***

Her father, Uriah Benjamin, had been more than a merchant — he was a man of deep principle, quiet strength, and rare loyalty. In a world that bowed to gold and status, he chose integrity. Born in the heartlands of Zandria’s central region, Uriah was the son of a cocoa farmer and a seamstress. He inherited the red-soiled fields of his ancestors — and the burden of turning them into legacy.

But Uriah was not a man driven by wealth. He was driven by purpose. Every bean he grew, every harvest he sold, fed not only his village but his dream: to build something honest, lasting, and clean.

He met Naomi Ibekwe in the Zandrian market square.

She was fire. Grace in motion. A young apprentice apothecary who spoke her mind and knew every root, herb, and leaf in the forest. When a merchant ridiculed her for refusing to sell an overpriced concoction, Uriah stepped in — not with fists, but with words that cut deep and left the man ashamed.

Naomi smiled at him that day, and Uriah knew two things instantly: one, she was the smartest woman he had ever met, and two, he would never love anyone else.

Their courtship was slow, respectful. Old-fashioned. He visited her family with gifts, learned her language, and listened more than he spoke. When they married, it was not for dowry or alliance — it was for devotion. A rare thing in Zandria’s upper caste, where wealth often replaced affection and sons were worth more than daughters.

So when Naomi gave birth to a girl — a tiny, wide-eyed baby with Amharic curls and lungs strong enough to wake the entire house — Uriah didn’t sigh with disappointment as the midwives expected. He laughed. Loud, joyful, unbothered.

“She is my lioness,” he declared. “I don’t need a son.”

And he meant it.

Where other men passed land deeds to sons, Uriah whispered legal codes into Amira’s ears at bedtime. He taught her the names of every tree on their farm and the law of every trade deal he signed. He paid tutors to come teach her — science, languages, economics — even when others scoffed.

“You’ll spoil the girl,” one elder had warned him.

“No,” Uriah said. “I will sharpen her. She will walk taller than me.”

He was a faithful husband — never once strayed, never once raised his voice to Naomi. He kissed her hand every morning before stepping into the fields and prayed with her every night before bed. When illness crept into her lungs, he poured himself into work, determined to earn enough to get her the best care in the capital.

But fate can be cruel to the just.

When drought ravaged Zandria and the cocoa blight spread like ash across the farms, Uriah borrowed heavily to stay afloat. The banks were merciless. He trusted the wrong broker. A forged signature. A dishonest cousin. And suddenly, decades of sweat vanished like smoke.

The morning they lost the farm, Uriah stood in the field barefoot, tears running down his face, as men with rifles and rolled parchments claimed his land.

That night, at the roadside, Naomi collapsed into Amira’s arms — coughing, gasping, breaking. And Uriah?

He knelt beside her, whispered apologies, and held her hand until she could breathe again. Then he looked at Amira — his lioness — and said, “No matter what happens, you are not less. Never let the world make you feel small.”

He died two weeks later.

Some say it was pneumonia. Some say heartbreak.

Amira never forgot.

Not his voice. Not his promises. Not the way he held her hand, as if her existence alone was enough.

And now — years later — trapped in the servant wing of the Markos estate, forced to barter her body for her mother’s medicine, Amira still heard him.

“You are not less.”

***

One morning, the banks arrived with soldiers and writs of seizure. Within hours, they were homeless. Her mother, Naomi Benjamin, who had always been strong, collapsed that evening beside the roadside. Diagnosis: pulmonary fibrosis, worsened by shock and untreated asthma.

They turned to family. Few answered.

Only Juliana Markos responded — distant cousin on her mother’s side. Elegant. Untouched by tragedy. But she didn’t offer comfort. She offered conditions.

A room in the servant quarters. A job as a maid. No pay — “until she proves herself.” Medicine for Naomi was “an expense, not a right.”

Amira scrubbed marble floors while Elina wore designer gowns. She ate leftovers in silence while Juliana hosted governors in golden halls. She kept her head bowed, her tongue-tied.

Until today.

Until Elina, draped in a silk robe, her manicured hands tossing a $1 million cheque in the air like it was confetti, looked her dead in the eyes and sneered.

“Guess purity pays, doesn’t it?” she said sweetly. “You should try it sometime.”

Amira’s fists clenched. But she said nothing. She couldn’t afford to. Not with her mother coughing behind the thin walls of the servant wing, her breath sounding like it was being stolen one wheeze at a time.

There was barely enough medicine left for tonight.

Juliana knew.

That’s why she leaned in now, a devil dressed in diamonds.

“We’ve arranged everything,” she said coolly. “The lights will be low. The guards will look away. You’ll go in. Lie still. Leave before dawn.”

“And if I don’t?”

Juliana smiled, slow and cruel. “Then your mother dies. Quickly.”

A pause.

Then she added, almost thoughtfully, “But don’t worry, dear. You won’t be alone. Destiny always favors the silent.”

Amira didn’t reply. She couldn’t speak past the lump rising in her throat.

Instead, she walked.

Past the glittering halls she’d dusted for years. Past Elina, still twirling the necklace Prince Michael had given her — a shimmering thing with a sapphire centerpiece said to be mined from the mountains of old Zandria. Past the guards who didn’t meet her eyes.

And into the dim servant quarters.

Her mother lay in bed, frame too thin for the mattress, eyes half-closed in pain. The room smelled of eucalyptus and desperation.

“Mama,” Amira whispered, kneeling beside her. “I’m here.”

Naomi’s cracked lips curved faintly. “My jewel… did you eat today?”

Amira shook her head, forcing a smile. “Later.”

She placed a cool cloth on her mother’s forehead, blinking back tears.

One night.

One lie.

One sacrifice.

For the woman who once sacrificed everything.

And somewhere deep inside her, a small ember burned.

If she survived this, she would never let anyone use her silence as permission again.