The Maid, the Prince, and the Queen’s Wrath

That evening, as I carried a basket of feed to the poultry yard, I heard the voice that made my heart skip a beat.

“Munachi.”

I froze, unwilling to turn.

“Why are you working here under this scorching sun?” he asked, his tone soft, almost teasing.

I kept my eyes on the ground. “It’s what Her Royal Majesty commanded, my Prince,” I murmured.

He sighed, stepping closer. “So… how do I get my usual ofe nsala? You know, the Igbo white soup only you make properly.”

Anger flared inside me. How dare he reduce me to a meal on his menu? He wasn’t here because he cared. He was here because he wanted. The rich always think the world revolves around them.

“Muna, don’t worry,” he said with that charming, infuriating smile. “I’ll speak to the Queen. You can stay my personal chef.”

I remained silent. Pretending not to hear was easier than giving in.

He frowned. “Munachi, I’m talking to you. No response?”

“Please, my Prince,” I said finally, turning to face him, “don’t make things worse. Her Royal Majesty already despises me enough.”

Our eyes met, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. But this time, I looked away first.

Three days later, my day off finally arrived. I was going to see Sochima, the only man who made me feel like a queen in my own little world.

I ran toward him in front of his apartment, arms wide open, ready for a warm embrace. But instead, he shoved me back.

“Sochi… what’s wrong? Did I offend you?” I asked, confused and hurt.

He laughed, bitter and harsh. “You palace pr0stitut€. See where your lack of control has landed you.”

I froze. “What… what did you just say?”

“You think I wouldn’t find out? Sleeping with the prince, like the cheap, common girl you are!”

My lips trembled. “Sochi… I’m innocent. Please… believe me.”

I dropped my bag and sank to my knees. “Obim, biko… please.”

The man I loved, the one I trusted, had shattered me. My world crumbled around me.

“Leave my house. Now. You poor, wretched girl. The prince will never marry someone like you. Get that into your head!”

I wiped my tears and whispered, “If anyone should call me poor, it shouldn’t be you. Because, Sochima… we are from the same class of poverty.”

Heartbroken, I picked up my bag and walked away, numb, wishing it were all a nightmare.

The next day, back at the royal poultry farm, I tried to focus on chores. But the sounds of raised voices made me pause.

Through the courtyard, the Queen Mother stormed, dragging Prince Izunna behind her. Anger radiated off them in waves.

“Izunna, how dare you disobey me! This girl must face her punishment!” the Queen bellowed.

“Mother, I’m starving! I need her to cook for me!” he fired back.

“Ridiculous! There are other maids! Why must it be her?” the Queen barked, eyes locking onto mine, cold and sharp with rage.

I froze, my chest pounding.

“You’ve bewitched my only son, haven’t you?” she hissed, stepping closer. “You’ll pay dearly for it.”

Before I could respond, the Prince grabbed my hand.

“Come with me to my car immediately,” he commanded. “You’re making my favorite soup in my apartment in town.”

“Munachimso!” the Queen roared behind us. “If you enter that car, consider yourself sacked from this honorable palace!”

The courtyard fell silent. The prince’s grip tightened on my wrist.

Fear, confusion, and a strange spark of anticipation raced through me.

Should I obey the Prince… or the Queen?