Handsome Prince Impregnates All The Young Women In The Village, Then This Happened

Editoron

When the seven market days ended, many girls returned to the palace. Midwife Neka examined them one by one.

And to everyone’s shock, many of them were actually pregnant.

The palace shook with confusion.

To narrow the truth, the chief priest proposed a seed ritual. Each pregnant maiden would plant a sacred seed in the prince’s garden. The true mother of the prince’s child would be marked by the strongest, healthiest growth.

The seeds were pla

.

Days passed.

Most of the plants grew weak, crooked, or barely at all.

But Adana’s plant rose strong and bright, greener than the rest, standing upright like truth itself.

People began to notice.

Whispers spread.

Then one night, Urena slipped into the garden and destroyed everything.

She ripped up Adana’s plant, then all the others too. If no plant survived, there would be no winner.

In the morning, the palace erupted again. The sacred test had been sabotaged.

This time the chief priest suggested something greater.

A final test.

Only the true mother, he said, could fetch Mamiri Ndu—the Water of Life—from the sacred river deep inside the forest. That water would be offered to the prince. The one whose water revived him would be the true one.

And those who lied would be exiled from Umuno forever.

Fear swept the courtyard.

One by one, many girls confessed or withdrew. Soon only two remained.

Adana.
And Urena.

When Adana pulled Urena aside and asked, “Why are you doing this?” Urena finally let part of her bitterness show.

“Do you think only you deserve the prince?” she said coldly.

Adana stared at her in shock. “Were you with him too?”

Urena laughed bitterly. “I am tired of watching others rise while I remain in the mud.”

That was when Adana realized the truth.

This was no longer just about the prince.

This was about envy.

The next morning, Adana and Urena set out for the forest.

Before they entered, a masked hunter appeared briefly at the edge of the path and whispered to Adana, “Be careful. Someone does not want you to return.”

Then he vanished.

The forest was dark, watchful, and cold. Strange sounds followed them through the trees. At last they reached the sacred river.

Adana knelt and prayed quietly.

“Please,” she whispered, “I do not want a crown. I only want Chidi to live. If I have lied, punish me. But if I have spoken truth, let this water carry life back to him.”

She dipped her pot into the river and lifted it easily.

Urena did the same, but her pot felt strangely heavy, as though the water itself resisted her.

Still, she carried it.

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I MARRIED MY CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART IN HIS HOSPITAL ROOM AFTER DOCTORS SAID HE HAD ONLY MONTHS TO LIVE—RIGHT AFTER WE SAID “I DO,” A NURSE WHISPERED, “BEFORE YOU LEAVE… LOOK UNDER HIS MATTRESS.” I met Ben when we were eight. He was the boy who carried my backpack when it was too heavy and slipped the biggest cookie onto my lunch tray when he thought I wasn’t looking. By sixteen, everyone joked we’d end up together. They were right. Two months before our wedding, Ben collapsed at work. The diagnosis shattered everything. An aggressive cancer. Too advanced. Too late. The doctors quietly told us he probably had only a few months left. I looked at the wedding invitations we’d already mailed and thought, None of this matters anymore. So we canceled everything. No ballroom. No flowers. No first dance. Instead, a hospital chaplain married us in Ben’s room. I wore blue jeans, a white shirt, and a cheap veil one of the nurses found during her lunch break. Ben insisted on wearing the ridiculous black bow tie I’d bought for our original wedding. It looked absurd with his hospital pajamas. He said, “A groom has standards.” Everyone cried. Even the nurses. After the ceremony, Ben squeezed my hand. “Best day of my life.” I truly believed it was mine too. Then a nurse caught me alone in the hallway. She checked that Ben couldn’t hear us. “Don’t tell him I told you this.” My heart stopped. She leaned closer. “Before you leave tonight…” “Look under his mattress. He’s lying to you. He and his doctor have A PLAN.” “He doesn’t know I’ve seen it.” Then she disappeared. I returned to my husband’s room, smiling like nothing had happened. But all I could think about… was what he’d hidden beneath his hospital bed. I waited until Ben shuffled toward the bathroom with his IV pole. The second the door clicked shut… I carefully lifted the mattress. What I saw there made my knees buckle. If you want to read the full story, type OK in the comments below. Then tap “view all comments” and check my first comment for the full story.

“My husband sent me a message from Cancun: “I left with your best friend. We’re not coming back.” I replied with only two words. “Good luck.” Then I canceled every card connected to my accounts and arranged for every lock on the house to be replaced. The following morning, two police officers appeared at my door. My pulse barely changed when I saw the pending transactions from Cancun. Thousands of dollars were disappearing from my accounts, paying for my husband’s luxury vacation with the woman I had once trusted more than anyone else in the world. I did not panic. Instead, my heartbeat settled into a slow, controlled rhythm. By the age of fifty, I had learned something important about myself. Whenever the emotion vanished and absolute clarity took its place, the decisions I made were permanent. I picked up my phone and called the twenty-four-hour service number printed on the back of my premium credit card. “Good morning. Premium member services,” a cheerful woman answered, her bright tone strangely out of place in the darkness of my bedroom. “I need you to cancel every additional card connected to my account immediately,” I said calmly. “Of course, ma’am. May I ask why?” “The people carrying those cards no longer have permission to spend my money.” Within minutes, every card in their wallets had become nothing more than useless plastic. But stopping the spending was only the first step. They no longer had access to my accounts. Now I needed to make sure they could not return home, unlock the door, and continue living here as though nothing had happened. I searched for an emergency locksmith willing to come out in the middle of the night. About an hour later, an exhausted-looking older man arrived on my porch carrying a heavy drill case. “You want every lock changed tonight?” he asked, studying my face. “Is everything okay?” “No,” I answered honestly. “But it will be.” He seemed to understand that I did not want to explain further. For the next two hours, the sharp sound of his drill cut through the quiet neighborhood. One by one, the old brass cylinders dropped into a metal bucket. One by one, newly cut keys were placed in my hand. “Would you like a few extra copies?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “No,” I replied. “After tonight, I’ll be much more careful about who gets a key.” Strangely, I slept better than I had in months. The house felt protected. Sealed. Mine again. But that sense of safety did not last long. At exactly 7:18 the next morning, a heavy pounding rattled my newly secured front door. It was not a polite knock. It was the kind of pounding made by someone who expected the door to open immediately. For a moment, I wondered whether my husband had already discovered that the cards were useless. Had his perfect Cancun escape fallen apart before breakfast? I tightened the belt of my robe and crossed the foyer, preparing myself for whatever confrontation waited outside. Then I looked through the peephole. The people standing on my porch were not my cheating husband. They were not the woman who had betrayed me. They were two police officers… 👉 Continued in the comments.”