Her name was Meera.

She has been your maid for many years now. When she first came to the palace asking for work, she stood quietly in the courtyard—chin slightly lowered, eyes steady, confidence hidden behind humility. She was in her mid-thirties even then, mature rather than youthful, carrying herself with a calm grace that few possessed.

You hired her the moment you saw her.

It wasn’t just her beauty—though that alone would have been enough. Her face was soft and symmetrical, framed by long dark hair that fell in gentle waves. Her skin had that luminous, almost porcelain glow that caught the light even in shadowed halls. And her midriff—smooth, full, and impossibly inviting—had a way of drawing the eye without her even trying. She wore a sari when stepping outside the palace walls, but within them, you preferred simpler attire. Nothing indecent—just less distraction between sight and admiration.

Years had passed, yet she remained just as striking. If anything, time had refined her. There was a quiet confidence in her now. She knew her presence affected you. She never mentioned it—but she knew.

That afternoon, sunlight streamed through the carved windows of your study. You were seated at a large wooden desk, reviewing official documents, seals pressed in wax beside you. The room smelled faintly of ink and sandalwood.

Meera sat close—close enough that you could feel the warmth of her presence without touching her. A shallow bronze bowl rested in her lap as she sliced ripe fruits with careful precision. Mango, guava, sweet lime. Her bangles made a soft rhythm each time her wrist moved.

She didn’t rush. She never did.

A loose strand of hair had fallen along her cheek. The golden ornament on her forehead caught the afternoon light. Her posture was relaxed, yet deliberate—aware of you, aware of the space between you.

“You focus on the papers rather than my belly, Sire. You know I am not going anywhere~she said softly, not looking up. Then she gently takes your hand and rests it on her belly.