1920
A merciless wind swept through the streets, lashing against the bodies of those who braved the snowfall. Even beneath layers of coarse wool and thick coats that reached their knees, the cold gnawed through, relentless. Scarves, crocheted with careful hands, clung to necks, offering little defense against the bitter air.
From the doorway of a grand townhouse, a girl stepped onto the snow-covered pavement, her arms burdened with overfilled bags. She struggled to balance them, her small frame bending under their weight, yet she did not dare falter. To complain would be a sin,a provocation that would summon the wrath of the woman standing behind her, draped in expensive cotton that brushed against her ankles.
"Janet!"
The sharp, commanding voice sent a shudder through the girl's body. Instinctively, she stopped, her worn shoes crunching against the frozen ground. She turned swiftly, her brown eyes flickering toward the source before dropping to the ground. She never dared meet those cold green eyes for too long.
"Yes, ma'am," she answered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her limbs.
"You wretched girl! That tomato is worth more than your miserable life. If you so much as bruise it, I'll have you thrown onto the streets where you belong."
A few passersby cast disapproving glances before walking on, but no one dared interfere. Janet silently knelt to retrieve the fallen tomato, brushing off the specks of snow before placing it back in the bag. Her hands, red from the cold, gripped the weight once more, and she resumed her walk toward the parked Model T, one street away, the roads too thick with slush for carriages or motors to halt nearby.
"Place them gently," the woman ordered, though Janet hardly needed instruction. She had learned long ago that even the slightest mistake could invite the sting of a cane. Carefully, she loaded the bags into the vehicle, her fingers aching with each movement.
"Drive," the woman instructed, climbing into the car with ease.
The engine roared to life, and just like that, the vehicle rolled away, leaving Janet alone in the cold.
She released a breath, watching it cloud in the icy air. It was no surprise, her mistress always made her walk home. A servant was not fit to sit beside her, nor even at the back of her car. It would take an hour to trudge back to the house, but at least she would be spared the sharp tongue of the old witch for a little while longer.
By the time she reached the kitchen entrance of the grand estate, Cruel Heart, as the servants had come to call it, a familiar warmth greeted her.
"Good Lord, child, I was sick with worry!"
Madam D, the housekeeper, rushed to her side, shaking the snow from her hair before wrapping a scarf around her shoulders. With gentle hands, she ushered her inside, where the heat from the hearth chased away the worst of the cold.
"She left you to freeze again, didn't she?"
It was not a question. They all knew their mistress's cruelty too well. Her heart was blackened as her wrinkled face, soured by age and greed. The only things she cherished were her money and her status,one of which she had used to snare a husband who now lived in silent misery.
"Madam, you must be careful. Someone might hear you," Janet warned softly, casting a wary glance toward the stairwell.
Madam D merely scoffed, shaking her head. "Let them hear me. Let them know what I think of that wretched woman."
Behind them, another servant girl approached, her expression sharp with resentment.
"One day, when I've saved enough, she'll get what she deserves," the girl muttered.
It was a common sentiment among the household staff. Every single one of them dreamed of the day they could break free.
"If I had the means, I wouldn't hold back," Madam D admitted, her voice softer now. Her husband had lost his fingers in an accident at the docks, forcing her to keep working to feed her five children. Otherwise, she would have left long ago, shouting her truths in their mistress's face before slamming the doors of Cruel Heart behind her forever.
"Where is she now?" one of the girls asked.
"Upstairs, likely giving poor Mr. Thomas an earful," Madam D sighed. "The man thought he'd found a fine match. Now he's trapped, just like the rest of us."
Their hushed conversation was abruptly cut short.
"Janet."
The deep, unmistakable voice sent a ripple of tension through the kitchen. Slowly, she turned, her breath hitching as she met the gaze of the young man standing in the doorway.
Nicholas.
The master's firstborn son stood tall, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the sheen of well-groomed hair slicked back with precision. Janet's face burned, not from the cold but from the way his eyes lingered on her.
"Come to my room," he instructed, already turning for the stairs.
"Child, don't," Madam D whispered. "You know what he is."
But Janet was already stepping away.
"I'm not a child," she said, though the words felt hollow.
She followed him up the grand staircase, past gilded portraits and flickering wall lamps, until they reached the third floor. The moment the door shut behind them, Nicholas's gentle mask fell away.
"Sir Nicholas," she started, but her words died as he seized her, pulling her into the iron cage of his arms.
He tilted her chin up, his lips finding hers with deceptive tenderness. But it was always the same. A moment of feigned affection before the beast emerged.
He pushed her onto the table, his hands already searching beneath her skirt. His fingers pressed against her inner flesh, moving with practiced cruelty. Every stroke sent a tremor through her, not of pleasure, but of pain.
She bit down on her lip, willing herself to stay silent.
She had known for a long time that Nicholas was not the kind man he pretended to be. Yet, she clung to the illusion, desperate to believe that somewhere beneath his callousness, there was love.
"Take off your skirt."
She obeyed. She always did.
The wood of the table bit into her stomach as he forced her down, her cheek pressed against the rough surface. Her hands fisted the edge, knuckles white, as he took what he wanted. Each thrust sent fresh pain through her body, a silent war between her flesh and his brutality.
Her fingers trembled. Her eyes stung. But she swallowed it all down.
It had been more than a year, yet every time was the same. The soreness. The bruises. The shame.
When it was over, Nicholas pulled away, already fastening his trousers.
"Put your skirt back on and get out," he said, his voice devoid of warmth.
She turned to him, her heart pounding. "But I have something to tell you."
"I don't care," he dismissed, heading toward his wardrobe.
She stepped closer, desperation creeping into her voice. "Nicholas, please. I,I think I'm.."
Before she could finish, he seized her by the arm, shoving her toward the door.
"Whatever it is, it can wait."
The door slammed in her face.
Janet stood there, her breath shaky, her body aching.
She had given him everything, her trust, her love, her body. And yet, she was nothing more than a fleeting pleasure.
But deep inside, a cold truth settled in her bones.
She was with child.
And Nicholas would not care.
The night had settled over the grand estate like a thick, suffocating blanket. Inside, the Cruel Heart mansion hummed with activity as servants rushed about, setting an extravagant feast for their master and her esteemed guests. The long dining table gleamed under the chandelier's glow, its surface laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and fruits that most of the household staff could only dream of tasting. The air was heavy with the scent of spiced wine and slow-cooked lamb.
Janet moved swiftly among the others, careful not to attract undue attention. She had learned the hard way that a servant's misstep, no matter how small, was met with swift and merciless punishment.
At the head of the table, their mistress sat in her usual position of authority, her sharp, aging face unreadable as she addressed the guests.
"Let's not delay any further. We should have them married by the end of the month," she declared, her voice smooth and commanding.
The woman across from her, elegantly dressed in a pearl-gray gown, nodded in agreement. "I think that would be best. Nicholas is a fine young man, and my daughter, Precious, will make him an excellent wife."
A crash interrupted their conversation.
All heads turned toward Janet, who stood frozen, staring in horror at the shattered plate at her feet. Her heart pounded as the blood drained from her face. She had not meant to drop it, but the words she had just overheard had struck her like a bolt of lightning.
Marriage?
Her throat tightened as her master's cold, calculating gaze fell upon her.
"You wretched girl!" the woman spat, her voice laced with venom.
Janet's hands trembled as she quickly bent to gather the broken shards. "I-I'm sorry, Mistress," she stammered.
"You see?" the guest huffed in irritation. "This is exactly why I say these servants must be kept in their place. Give them an inch, and they forget their station."
Janet barely heard them. Her mind was spinning.
Nicholas. Getting married.
It cannot be.
The weight of it pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She knew what she had to do. If she stayed silent, her child would be born with no future, just another forgotten life in the shadows of wealth and cruelty.
Summoning every ounce of courage, she straightened her back and spoke.
"Sir Nicholas cannot marry her."
A stunned silence followed. Then, as if on cue, the women at the table erupted.
"And why can't he?" her mistress challenged, her tone dangerously calm.
"Because I am carrying his child."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Nicholas stiffened, his green eyes wide, his mind racing for a way out.
"You lowly liar!" The guest shot up from her seat, her expression twisted in disgust.
"If you don't believe me, ask your son," Janet pressed, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. "For over a year, he has been taking me to his bed. Even this morning, I was with him."
Gasps rang through the dining hall. Nicholas's head dropped, his mother's piercing gaze boring into him.
"You... is this true?"
He hesitated for only a second before shaking his head furiously. "I have nothing to do with her!" he barked. "She's a scheming servant, trying to force her way into our family!"
Janet's chest burned. She had known he was weak, but to deny her so easily...
She forced herself to stand tall. "I have proof. And if you refuse to take responsibility, I will report this to the authorities."
Her master's lips thinned. She knew as well as Janet that no judge would truly rule in a servant's favor, but even an accusation of such a scandal could tarnish the family's reputation beyond repair.
A tense pause.
"Fine," the mistress said at last. "My son will take responsibility for you and your child."
Nicholas's face twisted in horror. "Mother!"
But she ignored him. Her mind was already working through the problem, calculating her next move.
"Tomorrow, we will discuss the arrangements," she said briskly, rising from her chair. Her husband, silent as ever, followed her without a word.
Janet released a shaky breath. It was done.
She had won.
Or so she thought.
Later that night, as Janet lay in her small servant's quarters, her heart felt lighter than it had in months. Soon, she would be Nicholas's wife. Even if his feelings for her were shallow, she would make him love her in time. Their child would have a name, a future.
Her dreams were interrupted by a loud crash.
She bolted upright just as the door flew op
"You little fool," the woman sneered. "Did you truly think you could trap me with your threats?"
Fear clawed at Janet's throat as the men advanced toward her.
"Take her away."
A sharp blow landed on her head, and the world went black.
When she awoke, the world was different.
The scent of damp wood and sweat filled her nostrils. Her limbs ached, her skin raw where the ropes bound her. She barely had time to register her surroundings before rough hands tore at her clothing.
No.
Her mind splintered, shutting out the horror as shadows moved over her.
She wanted to scream, but her voice was lost in the dark.
She had been so foolish.
She should have known, should have understood that a servant like her could never be more than a plaything to men like Nicholas and a nuisance to women like his mother.
She no longer wanted to fight.
She no longer wanted to exist.
And then..
A flash of steel. A guttural cry.
And silence.
A strong pair of hands pulled her up, wrapping her in warmth. Through the haze, she saw the face of a man. Not Nicholas. Not one of her tormentors.
"You're safe now," he murmured.
Then, darkness once more.
When she next opened her eyes, the world was soft. Warm.
A woman stood nearby, her presence unfamiliar but strangely comforting.
"Good morning," she greeted gently.
Janet blinked, trying to sit up. "Where... where am I?"
"You're safe," the woman assured her. "His Majesty brought you here last night."
"His Majesty?" Janet repeated, confusion lacing her voice.
"Yes."
"Who is he?" she asked, more to understand than out of fear.
The woman smiled. "That's a question best asked of him yourself."
She set a plate of warm bread and eggs before her.
"Eat first," she said kindly. "You'll need your strength."
Janet hesitated, then picked up the bread.
For the first time in a long while, she wasn't afraid.
She wasn't alone.
And, perhaps, she had a future after all.
"So, they met when he saved her?" Ella asks, leaning slightly forward, her eyes locking on John's. Her question pulls his attention from the road and shifts the conversation, momentarily steering it away from the king and Balu's past.
"But I don't get it. If her name was Janet, why call her Balu?" Her curiosity spills out, met only by John's quiet sigh.
"Because she crossed paths with a fate far greater than her name," he says, his gaze darkening as memories pull him back to the year
1925