The slave was hired to bathe the pampered prince, and upon undressing him, she was shocked by what…

In the heart of the port of San Gabriel in 1824, a young slave named Isidora was summoned to the palace to perform a task as strange as it was dangerous: to bathe Prince Alexander, famous for his arrogance and for humiliating anyone who approached him. No one understood why he had chosen her, much less what she would discover when she removed his clothes. What her eyes would see would not only change her destiny but would reveal a secret so deep and disturbing that Alejandro had sworn to hide it forever, until she, unknowingly, broke down all his defenses. Before we begin the video, tell me, where in the world are you listening from? Year 1824.

San Gabriel Port. A port hidden among green mountains and a sea that roars with an ancient voice. The air smells of salt, damp wood, and broken promises. Dawn is not gentle; it is golden and fiery, as if the sun wanted to impose itself on the mist that clings to the cobbled streets. On a hill overlooking the bay stands the Montemayor Palace.

 Its dark stone walls seem to drink in the morning light. Tall windows framed by heavy curtains. The silence there is not peace, it is vigilance. Inside, footsteps echo like the remnants of unforgiving time. And Sidora walks with her head held high.

 Her brown skin glistens with a light perspiration, not from exhaustion, but from the stifling heat that seeps even through the stone corridors. Her shoulders are straight, her hands steady. She wears a simple, worn linen dress, the same one she wears to work, but clean, carefully ironed the night before. Her bare feet feel the coolness of the floor, and with each step she hears the beating of her own heart.

 She didn’t know why she’d been summoned, but the rumor spread quickly. Prince Alexander had personally requested her. The other maids looked at her with a mixture of envy and pity. It was no secret that the prince was difficult, demanding, proud, and known for humiliating those who served him. And now Isidora was there, marching toward his chambers with orders to prepare his bath.

 A double wooden door, carved with hunting scenes, opens slowly. The scent of melted wax and incense fills the air. Inside, the light is warm and golden, emanating from a tall chandelier and several candles scattered throughout the room. Shadows dance across the walls as if trying to conceal secrets.

 And then she sees Prince Alejandro de Montemayor, seated in an ornate wheelchair of dark wood with carved arms. The high back gives it a throne-like air, but it is not the throne that commands respect, it is him. His torso is bare. The pale skin taut over firm muscles gleams in the candlelight. His gaze is not the one Isidora expected.

 There’s no smile, no curiosity, just a cold, calculating assessment, as if every detail of her were being measured and weighed. “I was expecting you,” she says, her voice low but firm. And Sidora inclines her head slightly without taking her eyes off him. She doesn’t want to reveal her true self, not entirely. “I’ve been told I should prepare Teza’s bath.”

 He doesn’t answer immediately. He rests an elbow on the arm of the chair, brings a hand to his chin, and watches her silently. Outside, the sound of the sea mingles with the crackling of the candles. She feels the room shrink, the air thicken. “I don’t like trembling hands,” she says finally, “hold me, do it firmly.”

 Her words are a challenge disguised as an order. And Sidora doesn’t blink, not giving her the satisfaction of seeing her insecure. She approaches the table where a copper tub awaits with hot water. The steam rises slowly, leaving a trail of moisture in the air. The aroma of the herbs floating in the water, lavender and rosemary, tries to ease the tension, but it doesn’t succeed.

 With skillful hands, she checks the temperature for the perfect temperature, too perfect to be a coincidence. He wanted everything this way, flawless, controlled. She takes a step toward him, noticing how his gaze follows her every move. It’s not desire those eyes read, but surveillance. It’s as if he fears that a gesture from her might reveal something he’s hiding. The silence stretches out.

 The chandelier’s light casts shadows on her face, highlighting the firmness of her jaw, the hardness of her mouth. But there’s something else, something that doesn’t quite fit, a tension in her shoulders, a slight change in her breathing as she bends down to place the towel on the low table next to the chair.

 And Sidora knows this moment will define everything. It’s not just a bath, it’s not just obedience, it’s a silent battle of wills. The prince glances down at his hands resting on the arms of the chair, then looks back at her. “Begin,” he orders, his voice heavy with force. She nods, but inwardly she feels she’s about to cross a threshold. What stands before her is not just a powerful man.

 He’s a man with a wall so high that anyone would turn away, except her. Because something, without her knowing why, tells her that behind that arrogance lies a story no one has told. And although she doesn’t know it yet, what she will discover when she dismisses him will change the way she sees him forever. The water steams in the copper tub.

 The steam rises slowly, tracing fleeting shapes in the air, like fading whispers. The room is filled with the sweet, penetrating scent of lavender, mingled with the crisp freshness of rosemary. It’s a perfume meant to be calming, but the tension is stronger than any herb. And Sidora takes a step toward the prince.

The faint creaking of the wood beneath his feet echoes in the silence. He feels as if his every move is being watched, measured, judged. Alejandro leans slightly back in his chair, as if giving her space, but in reality, he doesn’t look away.

 His gray eyes, cold as silver, follow her, not with interest, but with almost military control. Come closer, he orders without raising his voice. She does. The light from the chandelier falls on her bare torso, revealing perfect lines of taut muscles. It is a body forged not only by nobility, but by years of training, although something in her posture reveals a different rigidity, a weight that does not come from pride.

 Sidora takes a small, burnished metal pitcher and dips it into the tub. The hot water fills the vessel with a soft, almost intimate sound. When she lifts it, a few drops trickle through her fingers, and the warmth seeps into her skin like a heartbeat. She leans toward him. The first cascade of water falls onto her left shoulder, sliding down her pale skin and slowly tracing its way down her arm.

 The prince doesn’t move, but she senses a subtle change, a deeper breath, a slight tremor in his jaw. She’s watching him closely, and there’s something, something that still doesn’t quite add up. “Is this how you used to do it?” he asks, his voice seemingly intent on provoking her. “I’ve never bathed a prince, sir,” she replies, without taking her eyes off the flowing water.

“So, today you’ll learn,” he says, with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She feels he’s testing her, that every word and every silence is part of a game he’s played many times with others, but not with her. He takes a soft linen cloth, dips it in the water, and slowly wrings it out.

 Warm water drips onto his bare feet, making the chill of the floor disappear. With confident movements, she begins to clean his right arm from shoulder to wrist. The skin is warm and firm, but she notices something, an unusual tension as she passes near his side, as if there are areas he doesn’t want her to touch.

 Alejandro’s eyes remain fixed on hers. “Don’t stop,” he says. She obeys, but feels something invisible surrounding them, like a wall made of pride and mystery. She moves behind him. The wheelchair, with its wide, dark wooden wheels and iron spokes, makes a soft squeaking sound as she moves it.

 As she bends down to wipe his shoulder blades with the cloth, she feels the warmth of his body, the slow rhythm of his breathing, and a small spasm when the warm water touches a lower area. It’s fleeting, but enough for her to notice. “Does it hurt?” she asks gently. “No,” he replies quickly, almost curtly. And if Dora remains silent, she knows not to press the issue, but her intuition tells her there’s something there, a boundary he guards more carefully than any treasure.

 She returns to the front and repeats the process with her other arm. The water highlights every curve of muscle, every line of strength, but also every shadow of hidden pain. The warmth of the room begins to mingle with the heat rising through her own skin. She knows this work isn’t just physical; it’s emotional.

 It’s like walking across a narrow bridge with emptiness on either side. When she finishes the top part, she pauses for a moment. She takes a breath. The next step will be to lower the fabric covering her abdomen and legs. And there she senses the reason for her vigilance. The reason why her gaze is so sharp and her shoulders are tense. He knows it too.

 He observes her with a slight raise of his eyebrow, as if testing her courage to continue. “Don’t just stand there, Isidora,” he says, pronouncing her name for the first time. That simple detail strikes her deeply. Not many nobles bother to learn a slave’s name. She feels that in that instant, the test has shifted.

 It’s no longer about obedience, but about how close she can get to his truth without him pulling her away. The sound of the distant sea mingles with the sizzle of the candles. Outside, the day grows brighter, but inside, time seems to have stood still. Their next move will decide whether this will be just a chore or the beginning of something neither of them had foreseen.

 And Sidora brings her hands to the knot that holds the cloth around her waist, she doesn’t untie it yet, she only gnaws at it like someone testing the pulse of a mystery before unlocking it. And the prince doesn’t stop her. The knot of the cloth waits, silent, taut. The steam paints the candles. The wax falls slowly as if time itself were dripping. The sea in the distance also crashes against the rocks with a deep, ancient murmur.
 Inside, only two breaths can be heard, one restrained, the other disciplined. And Sidora holds the edge of the canvas. She doesn’t pull. She merely measures the yoke of her fingers, grazing the knot and feeling the slight roughness of the fiber worn from use. Prince Alexander doesn’t look away. His gray eyes are sharp. It’s not desire, it’s not tenderness, it’s control. And behind that control, something more. A warning that he doesn’t tolerate pity. If you’re going to do it, do it without trembling, he says in a low voice. I’m not trembling, Your Highness, she replies, I’m only respecting boundaries. The word hangs suspended. Boundaries. He barely frowns, as if that answer had struck a wall he hadn’t expected to see. And Sidora unties the knot.

 For now, she takes the pitcher and lets a trickle of warm water fall onto his collarbone. The liquid slides down his sternum and divides into two shimmering trails in the candlelight. She continues with the linen cloth, making slow, deliberate, circular movements, firmly rubbing the base of his neck, moving up to the nape, down his chest. The prince doesn’t move, but the muscles in his abdomen tense beneath her hand. It’s not modesty, it’s defense.

“They say you have a loose tongue,” he says, as if in passing. “What do you say?” “I say back when they treat me like an object,” she replies without aggression. “I’d rather be useful than invisible.” He barely turns his head toward the window. The golden light streams in like a river cut off by heavy curtains.

 Something in her jaw softens for a second, but it quickly returns to its usual place. Severity. “Put the screen in place,” she orders. “The light bothers me.” And Sidora obeys, moving the wooden screen carved with birds and branches in relief. The room becomes more intimate, more enclosed.

 The heat rises, and the steam perfumes the gloom with the scent of banda and rosemary. When she returns to his side, she notices the white grip of the prince’s fingers on the arm of the chair. Tense knuckles, an anchor in the midst of a storm. “Turn a little,” she says matter-of-factly. “I need to clean my back again.” The chair creaks as it moves, and if Dora runs the cloth over his shoulder blades, she traces the map of a fortress with warm water.

Beneath her hands, the skin yields, but his entire body remains on guard, as if any touch could trigger a memory. When the cloth slides down two more fingers, he twitches. It’s a minimal reaction, a flash, but enough. I hurt him, he doesn’t continue. He doesn’t pull away quickly, sharply, almost like a blow trying to anticipate another.

 And if Dora changes her rhythm, she doesn’t retreat, nor does she attack; she keeps pace, rinses the cloth, wrings out the excess with both hands, the veins on her wrists standing out, and she returns to the front. The prince follows her with his gaze, but for the first time, she doesn’t answer him. She lowers her eyes to her work as if she were a midwife assisting a silent birth, the delivery of trust. She places a folded towel on his knees.

 She adjusts a cushion at the base of her back. She readjusts the basin. They are small, almost domestic gestures, and yet the atmosphere changes. The scene loses its edge, gains a pulse. With each adjustment, Alejandro seems to remember that his body needs comfort, not just willpower. “No one prepares me like this,” he murmurs almost to himself, because they don’t know how to look without intruding, she says.

 A different silence falls, no more hostile, but attentive. And Sidora takes a deep breath. The next frontier is the fabric. She returns to the knot. The voices from the palace arrive muffled by the stone. A passing servant, the echo of distant footsteps, the rustle of a dress, all outside. In here, a tacit pact. “Look at me,” she asks softly. “I’m not going to humiliate you.”

He presses his lips together, looks at her. “I’m not looking for pity,” he replies. “I don’t know how to give it,” Isidora says. “I know how to care.” The word falls like a drop into a bowl. It sounds, it expands. To care. Alejandro tilts his head slightly, just enough for the light to catch the curve of his cheekbone and the shadow to reveal an old vulnerability. And Sidora finally unties the knot.

 The fabric gives way, sighing as if she’s held her breath for too long, but she doesn’t lower it yet. She gets up, crosses the room, and adds more hot water to the basin. Calmly, she finds a bar of honey-colored olive oil soap, wets it, and lathers it with her palm. The new scent completes the mixture—clean, warm, almost maternal.

“Are you delaying the inevitable?” he asks with a hint of irony. “I’m giving my body time to trust,” she replies. “My body listens too.” She returns, stands in front of him. The fabric rests loosely on her hips. Her breathing is more audible now, not from agitation, but from attentiveness.

 She brings the soapy cloth to the edge. The prince doesn’t look away. There’s a different gleam in his eyes. He’s not threatening, not mocking. “I expect when I lower the cloth,” she says, “you won’t tell me to stop halfway through. If you do, I’ll stop, but don’t play at hurting me so you don’t get hurt yourself.” He swallows. “I’m not playing,” he replies. “Pause, and I won’t break.”

Time folds in on itself. Outside, a seagull cries. Inside, a candle crackles. And if Dora takes hold of the edge, she lowers it an inch. Another time, the fabric brushes against her skin with a whisper of fiber and fear. He closes his hand on the arm of the chair, but doesn’t stop her. Keep going, he says very softly. The fabric is about to reveal what it has kept hidden for so long. And if Dora doesn’t tremble, neither does her voice.

Breathe with me. Ask. And for the first time, the prince obeys. The act stops here, a breath away from the secret, a heartbeat from the precipice. The fabric yields, not with a sudden pull, but with a slow, deliberate descent, as if each fold wanted to tell its own story before touching the ground. The sound is a whisper, the rustle of the fiber against the skin, mingled with the distant crackling of a candle going out.

 Outside, a gust of wind rattles the window, the glass barely vibrating, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Sidora grips the edge with both hands. The warmth of Alexander’s body seeps through the fabric, a vibrant, pulsating heat. The prince stares at her, but no longer with the sharp edge of judgment. Now there is something more.

 An expectant, almost vulnerable tension, masked beneath an upright posture. The fabric falls to his waist, revealing his abdomen first: pale skin taut over firm muscles, his breath quickening slightly. The candlelight caresses the shadows of every contour as if trying to memorize it. And Sidora notices his jaw tighten. It’s not modesty, it’s defense.

 She says nothing. He takes the soapy washcloth and slides it smoothly over her abdomen, avoiding any roughness, respecting the space between his hands and the weight of his gaze. The lather forms in white circles that, when rinsed with the pitcher, reveal a clean, almost new shine. “Too hot,” she asks. “No,” he replies quickly, as if he feared that this question concealed a deeper one.

 Sidora nods and continues, lowering the fabric a little more, revealing part of her hips, and that’s when he feels it. An almost imperceptible change in his skin temperature, a shiver that runs through his muscles. Alejandro grips the arm of the chair more tightly. His breathing becomes heavier.

 It’s not because of her, it’s because of what’s about to be revealed. The cloth continues to descend; the secret hasn’t been revealed yet, but Isidora already feels its weight. The air between them is thick, heavy with a silence that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, it’s inescapable. She bends down to wet the cloth again. The water in the basin is still steaming.

 The blend of lavender and rosemary floats like a soft but persistent cloud. Turning back to him, Isidora notices something. His gaze has shifted slightly to a spot on the floor, as if he needs to escape for a moment from what’s happening. She stops. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” she says, her voice low and firm. He glances at her quickly, as if that sentence were an unexpected blow.

 “I’m not looking for your approval,” she replies, but her voice no longer sounds so harsh. And Sidora resumes her work. The cloth slides down from the ribs, tracing a slow, deliberate path, without breaking the tension. Steam clouds the air, and the sound of water falling from the pitcher mingles with the measured rhythm of her breathing.

 Finally, the fabric reaches his knees, folded back on itself, heavy with dampness and time. Alejandro is exposed, almost completely. And although the secret hasn’t been revealed yet, and Sidora senses it, his legs are covered, but his posture, the way he keeps them still, the slight hunching of his shoulders, speak of something more than mere comfort. She kneels before him.

 The stone floor is cold, but her knees ignore it. She dips the cloth in and slowly wrings it out, letting the water drip into the copper bowl with a sound that seems to mark an intimate rhythm. She begins to clean her thighs with firm but gentle movements. Each touch is measured, as if she were touching not just flesh, but memory.

 Alejandro doesn’t move, but his hands, gripping the chair, betray the tension coursing through his body. And Sidora feels that each of her movements is a key, nearing a lock he’s been guarding for years. “Tell me if I should stop,” she whispers. “Don’t stop,” he replies. And this time there’s no harshness, only a command tinged with something more. Perhaps need.

 She obeys, washes carefully, rinses, dries with a soft towel; there’s no rush, no morbid curiosity. There’s a silent ceremony where each gesture seems to pry a stone from the wall he built years ago. Intimacy lies not in what is seen, but in what is allowed. When she finishes, she covers her legs again with a clean, warm blanket.

 The gesture is simple, but Alejandro closes his eyes for a second, as if that warmth were returning something he thought he’d lost. And Sidora stands up, takes a few steps back, letting the silence settle. Outside, the sea roars more loudly, and a timid ray of sunlight manages to slip through the window and graze the edge of the chandelier.

 No major truths have been revealed yet, but the way he looks at her now is different. She’s no longer the slave who received an order; she’s the woman who held his gaze as he unleashed what no one else dared to touch. And for Alejandro, that’s more dangerous than any threat. The silence after the bath is thick, almost physical. The blanket covers Alejandro’s legs, but Isidora feels that the fabric is barely a shadow between them.

 The air smells of the band, of rosemary, something harder to name now. A calm that isn’t peace, but a pause before a confession. Alejandro stares at the flame of a candle. The flame flickers slightly with each draft that slips through the cracks in the window. He doesn’t speak, but his breathing is slower, as if he were preparing his words with the same care one takes to prepare a sword before battle.

 And Sidora, standing before him, dries her hands with a cloth, doesn’t press against him, doesn’t look directly at him, learns the rhythm of his silence, that language that speaks more than the short phrases he usually uses, and then he breaks the silence. “Do you want to know why I don’t let anyone see me like this?” he asks without turning his head. “I don’t ask what they don’t want to tell me,” she replies softly, “but you do want to know.”

And Sidora doesn’t answer, she just remains calm, waiting. That waiting seems to give her permission. Alejandro takes a deeper breath and slowly pulls back the blanket covering his legs. He does it slowly, as if each inch were an act of forced surrender. Beneath it, there isn’t the perfect image anyone would expect from a young, trained prince.

 There are deep, irregular scars, some old and whitish, others more recent, with tones that speak of reopened wounds. The marks run along her thighs, part of her hips, and down to her knees. There are areas where the skin seems to have been burned, others as if the flesh had been torn by blades. And Sidora feels a weight in her chest, not of horror, but of someone else’s pain.

“I was 17,” he begins. “We were traveling in a caravan toward the northern border, an ambush. They didn’t want to kill me. They wanted me to live so everyone could see that the heir of Montemayor could be broken.” His voice doesn’t tremble, but it grows strained. Each word falls with the weight of iron on stone. “They held me captive for weeks, chained, starving, when I tried to escape.” He pauses briefly, his gaze fixed on an invisible point.

They dragged me back and branded me. They said that way I’d remember who’s in charge of my body. And if Dora doesn’t move, no gesture can erase that. She just listens, absorbing the story. Like absorbing a storm in the middle of the desert, letting it soak everything without resistance.

 “They brought me back to the palace alive,” he continues, “but not with dignity. Since then, I don’t allow anyone to see me weak. I’d rather they think I’m arrogant, cruel, than let them see that I’m vulnerable.” A long silence follows these words. And then Sidora kneels before him again, not to examine, not to question, but to be on his level.

 She extends her hand, but doesn’t touch the scars without permission. “May I?” Alejandro asks. She barely nods. She gently places her hand on the marked skin. It’s warm, alive. There’s no repulsion in her gesture, only conscious care, like someone touching a broken but sacred relic.

 She traces one of the scars slowly with her fingertip, recognizing each ridge as if they were letters of an ancient language. They’re not a shame, she finally says. They’re proof that you survived. He looks at her then, not as a prince, not as a man keeping a secret, but as someone who, for the first time in years, has let his armor fall. And in those gray eyes, once hard, there’s a different kind of glimmer, not exact gratitude, but a relief so profound it hurts.

 And Dora takes the clean cloth and dries the excess water that remained on his skin. Then, with the same calm, she covers him again with the blanket, not as one who hides, but as one who protects. “I don’t need to see them again,” she says, “once is enough. And not to judge you, but to understand you.”

 Alejandro takes a deep breath as if he’s just released a weight that’s been clinging to his ribs for years. “I don’t know why I told you,” he admits. “Because you needed someone to hear it,” she replies. He doesn’t answer, but in his eyes there’s a silent promise. That his confession wasn’t in vain. The sea roars louder outside. A seagull flies by. Its shadow crosses the window. Inside.

 The warmth of the steam mingles with something new, the intimacy of a shared secret. And Sidora knows this moment will determine everything that follows. Not only because she now knows the wound, but because he has shown her the soul that sustains it. And though the world out there would still see the arrogant, distant prince, she would know the truth. The water in the basin is now lukewarm. Almost cold.

 The steam has dissipated, leaving a soft scent of lavender and rosemary in the air that seems to cling to the stone walls. The silence that follows Alejandro’s confession isn’t awkward, it’s thick, as if they both know they’ve crossed a threshold from which there is no return. And Sidora remains kneeling before him.

 Her hands rest on her knees, her gaze fixed on the prince’s face. He doesn’t look directly at her. He seems lost in thought, as if still weighing the weight of what they’ve just shared. The crackling of the candles accompanies the moment. Outside, the sea gently laps a steady rhythm that mirrors their breathing.

 “You could leave,” he finally says, his voice lower than before. “You’ve done more than anyone else would have, and I’m not going to order you to stay.” Sidora tilts her head, remaining calm. “I’m not staying because I’m ordered to,” she says. “I’m staying because sometimes what hurts on the outside isn’t what needs the most care.” Alejandro slowly raises his gaze.

 Her gray eyes, once as hard as steel, now hold a different hue, a weariness and a gleam that might be relief. She sits up and goes to the table where a copper pitcher of fresh water sits. She pours it into a glass and places it on a tray next to a piece of dark, soft bread, still smelling of the oven.

 She brings it to him and places it on the small table next to the chair. “Eat something,” she says, not in a pleading or commanding tone, but with that gentle firmness that brooks no excuses. He looks at the bread, then at her as if unsure whether to accept, but finally takes a bite, chewing slowly like someone rediscovering a forgotten flavor. Between bites and sips, Alejandro leans back a little more in his chair.

 The tension in his shoulders barely eases, and Sidora, meanwhile, sits on a low bench opposite him. She doesn’t stare intently, but rather like someone accompanying a sick person who doesn’t want to be treated as such. “Have you always been like this?” he asks, breaking the silence. “So stubborn.” “I don’t like the word stubborn,” she replies with a half-smile. “I prefer persistent.”

He lets out a short exhalation that in any other mouth might be a laugh. But in his, it’s a luxury. “You’re different from the others,” he murmurs. “I didn’t come here to be like anyone else,” she replies. “I came to do what I know how to do: care. And sometimes caring also means saying what others keep silent.”

 Alejandro sets his glass down on the table and runs a hand through his hair, a tired gesture that makes him look younger. “I can’t remember the last time someone spoke to me like that,” he admits. Sidora gets up and takes the blanket covering him. With slow movements, she adjusts it on his legs, making sure it’s snug around his hips. He doesn’t protest, he doesn’t move away.

The touch of his warm hands contrasts with the cold she still feels on her scarred skin. The cold seeps through the old wounds, she says, as if he could read her mind. He looks at her for a moment, and in that moment there is no prince and slave, no power and servitude.

 There are only two people sharing a space where fragility isn’t a weapon, but a bond. The door opens slightly and a maid peeks in, but Alejandro raises his hand and waves her off. The door closes again, restoring privacy to the room. “Why does it matter to you?” he asks suddenly. “Because I know what it’s like to be left alone when you need it most,” she replies without hesitation.

 The silence that follows is different from before. Now it’s a bridge, not a wall. He lowers his gaze to his own hands, examining them as if they belonged to a stranger. “I don’t like you out of pity,” Isidora clarifies. “It’s not that. I like that despite everything you’re still here, that you didn’t let them tear away from you what they tried to destroy from the outside.”

 Alejandro says nothing, but the curve of his mouth loses some of its usual rigidity. His fingers, still resting on the arm of the chair, loosen. She picks up the copper basin and carries it to the table at the back. The water no longer steams; it is barely a dark mirror reflecting the candles.

 He carefully empties it, cleans the linen cloth, and lays it out to dry. Every gesture is calm, almost domestic, but Alejandro follows each movement as if he somehow needs to hold onto that presence. Before leaving, Isidora stops beside him. “I’ll be here again tomorrow,” she says. “I didn’t ask you to come back,” he replies. “That’s why I’m going to.”

She leaves the room, and Alejandro is left alone. The candlelight flickers, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the weight of solitude as a burden, but rather as a space where he can breathe. The following morning arrives shrouded in a thick fog that covers the port of San Gabriel like a bridal veil.

 The air is damp and cool, and seagulls fly low, their cries echoing off the stone facades. Inside the Montemayor Palace, the corridors are dimly lit, barely illuminated by oil lamps that cast long shadows on the walls. And Sidora walks with a firm step. Her linen dress, clean and freshly ironed, brushes softly against the polished stone floor.

 She carries a tray covered with a white cloth, warm bread, fresh cheese, and a small pitcher of herbal tea made with mint and chamomile. The sweet, herbal aroma mingles with the faint scent of her skin, still tinged with the homemade soap she used to wash at dawn. Reaching the door to the prince’s chambers, she knocks gently.

 She doesn’t wait for an answer because she knows he’s not the type to invite people over. She pushes open the carved wooden door and goes inside. Alejandro is by the window in his wheelchair, watching the harbor. His hands rest on the open window frame, and the cool breeze gently stirs his dark hair. He doesn’t turn his head when he hears her come in, but his shoulders tense slightly, as if he needs a second to accept that she has kept her promise.

 “Good morning, Your Highness,” Isidora says calmly. “I didn’t expect you to come so early,” he replies without taking his eyes off the sea. “I promised to return, and I don’t like to break promises.” She places the tray on a low table near him. The white cloth covering it slides gently open, revealing the still-warm bread and cheese.
 The steam from the tea rises in spirals that smell of home. “You don’t have to bring me breakfast,” Alejandro says with a hint of discomfort. “I didn’t bring it because I had to; I brought it because you barely ate dinner last night.” That detail surprises him. He turns his head and looks at her, assessing whether she’s watching him more than he’s letting on. And if Dora doesn’t look away, she simply sits on the bench opposite him, as she did the day before, and pours him a cup of tea. Alejandro takes the cup, and the warmth trembles slightly in his hands. He takes a sip, and his lips soften for a moment. “I can’t remember the last time I drank something like this,” he confesses. “They always serve me wine or strong coffee because no one stops to think about what you need, only what they expect from you.”

 Isidora answers matter-of-factly. That phrase hangs between them. The prince looks down at his cup, and for a few seconds the only sound is the soft lapping of the waves against the pier. “Have you always taken care of others?” he asks, breaking the silence. “Since I was a child. My mother died when I was eight.”

 I was left in charge of my two younger sisters. I learned that caring isn’t just about providing food and shelter; it’s also about learning to see what others don’t show. Alejandro nods slowly, as if those words resonated with him. He takes another sip of tea and tries a piece of bread.

 The fresh, salty cheese balances the sweetness of the bread, and for a moment he seems to enjoy it without the usual shadow in his eyes. And Sidora watches him, not with intrusive curiosity, but with serene attention. She notices that the stiffness in his shoulders has lessened, that he no longer grips the edge of the chair as if it were a constant defense. “Today the bath will be shorter,” she says after a few minutes.

 Not for lack of time, but so your body doesn’t get tired. “Are you going to keep bathing me?” he asks with a hint of irony. “If you allow it, yes. I don’t intend to leave things unfinished.” He smiles slightly. It’s not a broad smile, but in a man like Alejandro, that gesture is almost a surrender. They approach the tub that Isidora has filled this time with water at the perfect temperature, scented with rose petals and eucalyptus leaves.

The scent is different from yesterday’s, fresher, cleaner, like a new morning. When she wets the cloth and begins to run it over his arms, he doesn’t react with his usual stiffness; he even lets her wash his neck and the nape of his neck without moving away. “Why aren’t you afraid to get so close?” he asks softly.

Because I don’t see a prince, I see a man who needs to be treated like one. Alexander doesn’t respond immediately. He watches as she wrings out the cloth with steady hands, as the water falls in a steady, clear stream, and as each movement seems to have a purpose that goes beyond the task itself.

 When she finishes, she carefully dries him and covers him with the blanket again. This time he doesn’t adjust it, he simply lets her hands settle the fabric over his legs. There’s something in that gesture that isn’t spoken, but is understood. A mutual acceptance. Before leaving, Sidora picks up the empty tray. “I’ll bring something different tomorrow,” she says. “And what if I don’t want to?” he asks.

 “Will you still eat it?” she replies with a brief smile. Alejandro watches her leave. The echo of her footsteps fades down the corridor, and he is surprised to find himself expecting to hear them again tomorrow. The day dawned hotter than usual. The relentless sun beat down on the red tiles of the Montemayor palace, as if it wanted to strip them of their color.

 The air was heavy, with no sea breeze to relieve it. From early morning, the city bells had been ringing in an unusual way. Three long chimes, a pause, three more chimes. It wasn’t a call to mass, but a signal for an urgent meeting. And Sidora had already arrived at the prince’s chambers with her breakfast tray. She brought freshly baked cornbread, golden honey, and a light herbal tea.

 Upon entering, she found Alejandro standing by the table with a scroll spread out and a frown on his face. “There will be no bathing today,” he said without looking up. “The news that has arrived is not good.” Sidora placed her tray on the low table and approached. On the scroll, a broken wax seal displayed the emblem of the royal council. The letters, written in still-fresh ink, described the situation.

A workers’ revolt had broken out on a Montemayor family estate. The conflict had started midday on the way there, over unpaid debts and unfair treatment. “They want me to go,” Alejandro muttered, tapping his knuckles on the edge of the table. “They want me to appear as a symbol of authority.” Sidora looked at him, trying to choose her words carefully.

 And you, what do you want? I can’t travel, not as they expect. I can’t ride in on horseback with a sword at my side and an air of conquest. There was a heavy silence. Outside, the bustle of the port was louder than usual. Raised voices, hurried footsteps, the hammering of blacksmiths reinforcing harnesses. Alexander leaned back in his saddle, closing his eyes for a moment.

“They’ll have to send someone in my place,” he said, “and that will mean the story will be told without me.” Isidora felt a pang in her chest. She knew what he wasn’t saying: that for a prince accustomed to controlling his narrative, being represented by another was a form of invisibility. “I could go,” she said almost without thinking.

Alejandro opened his eyes and stared at her as if he’d heard something crazy. “You know how to talk to people who feel ignored. I’ve been through what they’re going through.” He clenched his jaw. “It’s not your responsibility,” he wouldn’t admit. “But it’s not mine to just sit here and pretend nothing’s wrong.” Alejandro leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

 His gaze was intense, and for the first time, it held no trace of mockery or condescension. “If you go, you will not go as my messenger. You will go as my voice.” And Sidora felt a chill. To be the voice of a prince meant carrying his word, but also his reputation, his risk. “I accept,” she said firmly. He did not reply immediately.

 He observed her, assessing the firmness in her eyes, the uprightness of her posture. Finally, he nodded. “You will carry this document,” he said, rolling the parchment and resealing it, “and you will wear my insignia.” He bent toward the chest of drawers and took out a silver brooch bearing the Montemayor family crest.

 She placed it in his hand, and the cold, heavy metal seemed to seal a pact. “I want you to come back,” she added, her voice carrying more emotional weight than any previous command. And Sidora carefully put the brooch away. “I will return,” she promised. They spent the morning reviewing details: the names of the revolt’s leaders, the most pressing grievances, how she should present herself.

Alejandro spoke to her frankly, without beating around the bush, and she listened attentively, absorbing every instruction. As evening began to fall, Sidora prepared to leave. She wore a long, dark-colored skirt and a simple blouse, but a shawl draped over her shoulders to protect herself from the sun. At her waist, she carried a small leather pouch with bread and water for the journey.

 Before she could cross the threshold, Alejandro stopped her with his voice. “Isidora.” She turned around. “Yes. If at any point you feel you’re in danger, come back, no matter the outcome.” She smiled slightly. “And if it were the other way around, would you give me the same order?” He didn’t answer, he just looked at her. And in that look was the answer. No, he would never retreat if he were in her place, and neither would she.

 The sound of her footsteps faded down the hallway, but Alejandro remained by the window, watching the sun sink below the horizon. He didn’t like that she was leaving, but for the first time, he trusted that upon her return, she would bring more than just news. She would bring the certainty that he was no longer alone to bear the weight of his name.

Dawn paints the dirt roads leading to the revealed estate copper. The air is dry and dusty, and each horse’s hooves raise a cloud that clings to the skin, a constant reminder of the distance to the sea. Isidora travels in a simple cart, seated beside a silent, elderly driver.

 Accustomed to not asking questions when the Montemayor family seal is present. In his lap, the sealed parchment rests like a heart beating to a different rhythm. The silver brooch Alejandro gave him gleams faintly in the early morning light. And Sidora feels its weight, not only because of the metal, but because of what it represents: the voice of a man who had never trusted anyone like this before.

 As the cart approaches, the landscape changes. Palm trees and shrubs give way to cultivated fields, now abandoned. Rows of sugarcane and corn stalks lean, neglected as if sharing the weariness of the men and women who once tended them. The silence of the countryside is not natural. It is a tense, expectant silence.

 When the cart arrives at the main entrance of the estate, Sidora sees the assembled crowd: men with sun-weathered faces, women with headscarves, young men with their arms crossed, all standing in a semicircle. The murmur dies down when they see her get out. No one was expecting a woman, much less a woman with skin marked by labor, wearing a simple dress and bearing the Monte Mayor emblem.

 A tall man with a thick beard and a stern gaze steps forward. “Who are you?” he asks in a grave voice. Isidora holds his gaze. “Isidora, I come on behalf of Prince Alejandro de Montemayor.” A murmur ripples through the crowd. Some frown, others offer ironic smiles. The tall man takes another step forward.

 And why didn’t he come? Is he afraid? Sidora feels the weight of everyone’s stares, but she doesn’t flinch. He didn’t come because his body prevents him, but his voice, his words, are here. She touches the brooch on her chest. She entrusted it to me. The man looks her up and down, and doubt is etched in his eyes.

 And what does a servant know of our sorrows? She answers everything, because I wasn’t always a palace servant. I was a daughter of the fields. I walked barefoot on dry earth. I worked under the sun until my hands bled. I know what it’s like to wait for a payment that never comes. The murmur grows, but this time it’s not mockery, it’s concern.

 Some faces soften. A young woman carrying a sleeping baby steps forward and asks, “And what have you come to offer us?” Sidora opens the parchment and reads it aloud. The words are clear: partial debt forgiveness, better payment terms for the next harvest, and a promise that the grievances will be heard in person by the prince when he is able to travel.

 Each sentence is accompanied by the certainty that Alexander knew what he was writing, but also by Isidora’s firm tone, which doesn’t waver once. “This isn’t charity,” she says as she closes the parchment. “It’s a commitment. But for it to be fulfilled, you must remain calm and work without fires, without violence. If there is no peace, no word will stand.” The tall man crosses his arms.

And how do we know this isn’t just another lie from the palace? Because if it were a lie, I wouldn’t be here. And if they break it, I’ll come back myself to demand answers. The crowd falls silent. The woman with the baby barely smiles. An old man steps forward, leaning on a cane, and says, “I believe in this girl.” The tall man looks around.

 Her companions nod, some more convinced than others. Finally, she shrugs. “We’ll have peace for now. But if he doesn’t keep his word, we’ll be back.” “And so will I,” Isidora replies, looking him straight in the eye. The atmosphere loosens; some disperse, others gather closer to listen to her. And Sidora feels the sweat on her back, not from the heat, but from the tension she has just endured.

 She has done her part, but she knows the hard part will be returning and looking Alexander in the eye to tell him that his word has been accepted, but also watched. When the cart sets off back, the sun is high and the air is scorching. And Sidora looks back and sees the crowd dispersing into the fields. She doesn’t know if she will ever see them again, but one certainty accompanies her. That day she didn’t speak as a slave, not even as an emissary.

He spoke as an equal. And that, in Alejandro’s voice, was a change no one would have foreseen. The sun was already setting when Isidora’s cart passed through the gates of the Montemayor palace. The sky was painted in shades of gold and pink, and the evening breeze carried with it the salty scent of the sea, mingled with the distant smoke from the kitchens.

 After hours of walking, Isidora’s body ached, but her steps were firm. At the main entrance, a guard recognized her and opened the door without question. The corridors were dimly lit, illuminated by torches that cast long shadows on the walls. Each echo of her footsteps brought her closer to the room where she knew he would be. She gently pushed open the door.

 Alejandro stood by the window, just as she had the first time she’d seen him that morning before he left. He was in the same wheelchair, but his posture was different—upright, attentive, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “You’re back,” he said without moving. “I promised,” she replied, walking forward until she was standing in front of him.

 For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy with things that couldn’t be said right away. His worry, the weight of her day, and the invisible tension that always existed between them. “What happened?” Alejandro finally asked. And Sidora told him everything. How the crowd had greeted her with suspicion.

How the tall man challenged her, how he spoke from his own experience and not just from his words, how he read the parchment and demanded peace, and how in the end they agreed, but not without making it clear that they would watch over the fulfillment of what was promised. Alexander listened without interrupting.

 Her hands rested on the arms of the chair, but sometimes her fingers tightened as if she were reliving each moment she described. “So, they trust,” he said when she finished, “they trust enough to wait, but they expect you to keep your word.” He nodded slowly. Then, with an almost imperceptible gesture, he indicated the low table next to his chair. There, a basin of warm water, rose petals, and mint leaves awaited her.

 “I want you to rest today,” he said. And Sidora looked at him in surprise. “It’s not necessary.” “It is. You did for me what no one had ever done before. I want to give you back some of that.” She hesitated. She wasn’t used to being cared for, but she let herself be led to a chair in front of him. Alejandro took a clean cloth, dipped it in the perfumed water, and wrung it out slowly.

 The water dripped with a soft, almost hypnotic sound. Then, with careful movements, she washed her hands, rubbing them with the same calmness with which she had washed her arms days before. The warmth of the water and the touch of her strong, yet gentle, hands made her close her eyes for a moment. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, not yet.

 It was a recognition, an act of equality. “I never thought I’d trust someone like this,” Alejandro admitted, drying his hands with a soft towel. “But with you, I don’t feel I need to protect myself.” “And I never thought a prince could listen to me the way you do,” she replied. He placed the towel on the table and looked directly at her.

 Isidora, when you arrived here you were just a slave assigned a task. But now, now you are the person I trust most. She held her gaze. Her gray eyes no longer held the hardness they had on the first day. They shone with a mixture of gratitude and something else, something she didn’t yet dare name.

 “Then trust that I will remain here,” she said, “not out of duty, but by choice.” A gust of wind made the sails tremble, and the flame cast shadows that danced across their faces. Alexander took her hand not possessively, but as one holds an anchor. “I don’t know what the world will say if it sees this,” he murmured, “that a prince and a woman not born free have found a way to walk together,” she replied, without letting go. Outside, the sea roared, but inside, all seemed still.

 And Sidora knew that tests still remained, that the newly formed trust would have to withstand the weight of time and the gaze of others. But that night, in the warm twilight of the room, there was no palace, no titles. There were only two people who, against all logic, had found rest in the other place.

 Alejandro gently released her hand, but looked at her as if he had etched that moment into his memory. “Tomorrow the bath will be different, not to heal my body, but to begin healing everything else.” She nodded. “Tomorrow will be a new day.” And as she left the room, Isidora knew that something had changed forever, not only for them, but for everything it meant to be of service to another.

Because sometimes serving others also meant teaching them how to be free. If this story touched your heart, write the word “prince” in the comments to show you read to the end. Like this post so more people can read it. Share it with someone who loves stories of overcoming adversity and building trust.

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