She Was a Virgin Maid—Until the Billionaire Took What He Wanted
Episode 2
The silence in Alhaji Malik’s room was thick like smoke when Aishah entered. The curtains were drawn, soft lights glowed from golden wall lamps, and he was seated on the edge of the massive bed, dressed in a black kaftan, sipping something from a glass that looked like wine but smelled stronger. She kept her eyes on the floor, her arms trembling as she clutched the edge of her hijab. “Come closer,” he said calmly. She didn’t move. “I said come.” His voice was not raised, but it carried a weight that pushed her forward like invisible hands. Her heart was beating like a drum, her feet cold against the tiled floor, her mind racing with every verse of protection she could remember. When she reached him, he stood and walked around her slowly like a lion circling prey. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked. She didn’t answer. “I’ve had models in this house. Politicians’ daughters. But none of them made me feel like this.” His words fell like acid on her skin. She wanted to run, scream, vanish—but she stood still, trapped in fear, her hands tightly gripped together. Then he touched her. Just her chin at first. Then her waist. Then the scarf around her neck. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you if you just relax.” But there was no relaxing. There was only dread. Only betrayal. Only helplessness. And when he finally took her—without violence, without shouting, but with complete control—Aishah left her own body. She stared at the ceiling. She counted the lights. She tasted the salt of her tears. She did not scream, did not fight, did not speak. When it was over, he pulled the blanket over her like it was affection, like he had done her a favour. “I’ll take care of you now,” he said, stroking her hair. “No one else will touch you. You’re mine.” She got up slowly, her legs barely carrying her weight. Blood stained her gown. Pain bloomed between her thighs. Her soul felt hollow. She walked back to the servant quarters like a ghost. She scrubbed her body until it burned. She prayed until her knees gave out. But no matter how hard she cried, she couldn’t wash away what he took. The next morning, she was called to work like nothing happened. And so she worked. She scrubbed floors. She served food. She changed bedsheets. And each time she saw him, he smiled at her like they shared a secret. He would brush her waist when he passed, whisper her name like it was a pet, drop wads of cash in her locker. She never touched the money. She never spoke to him. But her silence didn’t stop him. Weeks passed. The others began to notice something had changed. Her smile disappeared. Her appetite vanished. And one morning, she collapsed while cleaning the hallway. A test was done. The result came back positive. She was pregnant. Malik didn’t flinch. “It’s mine,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” But Aishah didn’t want care. She wanted her old life back. She wanted her innocence, her safety, her faith. The head maid accused her of seducing the master. Some of the maids whispered that she planned it all to trap a rich man. But she said nothing. Not a word. Even when her aunt came crying, shouting, slapping her, she remained silent. Her mother was told, and the shame crushed the woman like illness never could. “You’ve disgraced me,” she said over the phone, coughing and sobbing. “You were supposed to help us—not end up with a bastard in your belly.” Aishah cried for days. She tried to abort. She starved herself. Drank strange herbs. But the baby stayed. And so she carried it. Through pain. Through shame. Through Malik’s constant presence. He decorated a room for her. Bought clothes. Paid nurses. Called it love. But love didn’t feel like this. Love didn’t taste like violation. When labour came, it came fast and wild. She screamed for hours in the private hospital he arranged. And when the child came—a girl—she stared at her daughter’s face and saw both beauty and trauma. The child looked like him. But her tiny fingers wrapped around Aishah’s hand like a lifeline. She named her Amatullah. Servant of Allah. Because only Allah had stayed with her. Malik came with gifts. He held the baby and called her perfect. He looked at Aishah with soft eyes and said, “I want to marry you. I’ll make you my second wife.” She stared at him, her face blank. “So that you can make it halal after already ruining me?” she whispered. “So that I will thank you for giving me what I never asked for?” He frowned. “Don’t be ungrateful. You could have been nothing. Look at your life now.” Her voice broke as she replied, “I was more than nothing before you touched me. I had dignity. I had peace.” She refused his offer. Took her baby. Left the mansion. He let her go, maybe out of guilt, maybe out of boredom. He transferred money into her account. Gave her a house in a quiet town. But she never answered his calls again. She built a small life with her daughter, opening a tailoring shop, staying close to the mosque, crying quietly at night. The child grew, smart and curious, always asking, “Mummy, who is my father?” And Aishah would answer, “Someone I never want you to become.” But the world is small. News spreads fast. One day, the TV screamed headlines: “Billionaire Malik Okoye Dies in Road Crash.” Aisha froze. Her daughter stood beside her. “That’s him, isn’t it?” she asked. Aishah nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s him.” And when the reporters came asking for statements, she gave none. She went to the mosque, prayed for his soul, and whispered, “Only Allah knows what you were.” Then she walked home, held her daughter close, and for the first time in years, slept without tears.
She Was a Virgin Maid—Until the Billionaire Took What He Wanted
Episode 2
The silence in Alhaji Malik’s room was thick like smoke when Aishah entered. The curtains were drawn, soft lights glowed from golden wall lamps, and he was seated on the edge of the massive bed, dressed in a black kaftan, sipping something from a glass that looked like wine but smelled stronger. She kept her eyes on the floor, her arms trembling as she clutched the edge of her hijab. “Come closer,” he said calmly. She didn’t move. “I said come.” His voice was not raised, but it carried a weight that pushed her forward like invisible hands. Her heart was beating like a drum, her feet cold against the tiled floor, her mind racing with every verse of protection she could remember. When she reached him, he stood and walked around her slowly like a lion circling prey. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked. She didn’t answer. “I’ve had models in this house. Politicians’ daughters. But none of them made me feel like this.” His words fell like acid on her skin. She wanted to run, scream, vanish—but she stood still, trapped in fear, her hands tightly gripped together. Then he touched her. Just her chin at first. Then her waist. Then the scarf around her neck. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you if you just relax.” But there was no relaxing. There was only dread. Only betrayal. Only helplessness. And when he finally took her—without violence, without shouting, but with complete control—Aishah left her own body. She stared at the ceiling. She counted the lights. She tasted the salt of her tears. She did not scream, did not fight, did not speak. When it was over, he pulled the blanket over her like it was affection, like he had done her a favour. “I’ll take care of you now,” he said, stroking her hair. “No one else will touch you. You’re mine.” She got up slowly, her legs barely carrying her weight. Blood stained her gown. Pain bloomed between her thighs. Her soul felt hollow. She walked back to the servant quarters like a ghost. She scrubbed her body until it burned. She prayed until her knees gave out. But no matter how hard she cried, she couldn’t wash away what he took. The next morning, she was called to work like nothing happened. And so she worked. She scrubbed floors. She served food. She changed bedsheets. And each time she saw him, he smiled at her like they shared a secret. He would brush her waist when he passed, whisper her name like it was a pet, drop wads of cash in her locker. She never touched the money. She never spoke to him. But her silence didn’t stop him. Weeks passed. The others began to notice something had changed. Her smile disappeared. Her appetite vanished. And one morning, she collapsed while cleaning the hallway. A test was done. The result came back positive. She was pregnant. Malik didn’t flinch. “It’s mine,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” But Aishah didn’t want care. She wanted her old life back. She wanted her innocence, her safety, her faith. The head maid accused her of seducing the master. Some of the maids whispered that she planned it all to trap a rich man. But she said nothing. Not a word. Even when her aunt came crying, shouting, slapping her, she remained silent. Her mother was told, and the shame crushed the woman like illness never could. “You’ve disgraced me,” she said over the phone, coughing and sobbing. “You were supposed to help us—not end up with a bastard in your belly.” Aishah cried for days. She tried to abort. She starved herself. Drank strange herbs. But the baby stayed. And so she carried it. Through pain. Through shame. Through Malik’s constant presence. He decorated a room for her. Bought clothes. Paid nurses. Called it love. But love didn’t feel like this. Love didn’t taste like violation. When labour came, it came fast and wild. She screamed for hours in the private hospital he arranged. And when the child came—a girl—she stared at her daughter’s face and saw both beauty and trauma. The child looked like him. But her tiny fingers wrapped around Aishah’s hand like a lifeline. She named her Amatullah. Servant of Allah. Because only Allah had stayed with her. Malik came with gifts. He held the baby and called her perfect. He looked at Aishah with soft eyes and said, “I want to marry you. I’ll make you my second wife.” She stared at him, her face blank. “So that you can make it halal after already ruining me?” she whispered. “So that I will thank you for giving me what I never asked for?” He frowned. “Don’t be ungrateful. You could have been nothing. Look at your life now.” Her voice broke as she replied, “I was more than nothing before you touched me. I had dignity. I had peace.” She refused his offer. Took her baby. Left the mansion. He let her go, maybe out of guilt, maybe out of boredom. He transferred money into her account. Gave her a house in a quiet town. But she never answered his calls again. She built a small life with her daughter, opening a tailoring shop, staying close to the mosque, crying quietly at night. The child grew, smart and curious, always asking, “Mummy, who is my father?” And Aishah would answer, “Someone I never want you to become.” But the world is small. News spreads fast. One day, the TV screamed headlines: “Billionaire Malik Okoye Dies in Road Crash.” Aisha froze. Her daughter stood beside her. “That’s him, isn’t it?” she asked. Aishah nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s him.” And when the reporters came asking for statements, she gave none. She went to the mosque, prayed for his soul, and whispered, “Only Allah knows what you were.” Then she walked home, held her daughter close, and for the first time in years, slept without tears.
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