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MidReal Story
The Surrogate's Secret Baby
Scenario:A surrogate for rich couples in a medieval fantasy world gets more than she bargained for with her next client.
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Maeve
She is a former prostitute turned surrogate agent in a medieval fantasy world. She is resilient,independent,and determined. Maeve was once sold into slavery and worked in a brothel,but she later freed herself and started finding clients for surrogacy services. She faces challenges with her landlady,Mrs. Jenkins,and prepares for a new client's arrival,a wealthy noble named Lord Thomas Fletcher. Maeve is unexpectedly reunited with her former lover,Ciaran,when he arrives as her new client's bodyguard.
Caitlin
She is a fellow surrogate who works with Maeve and provides support as a friend and colleague. She is lively,compassionate,and outspoken. Caitlin has been surrogates herself in the past and understands the trials Maeve faces. Her friendship offers Maeve an outlet for her emotions and provides encouragement when dealing with challenging clients like Lord Thomas Fletcher. Caitlin's presence ensures Maeve does not feel alone in her endeavors.
Ciaran
He is a former outlaw leader who freed Maeve from slavery and helped her start her surrogacy business. He is protective,loyal,and determined. Ciaran not only acts as the bodyguard for Lord Thomas Fletcher but also seeks to reconnect with Maeve. Their past filled with love and danger,he struggles with the guilt of not being able to protect her fully. Despite his feelings,Ciaran aims to make amends by helping Maeve regain control over her life and business.
I laced my stays tighter, pulling my shoulders back to get the last bit of lace through the hole.
It was a good thing I had learned to do them myself, or I would have been stuck with a gown that was too small.
I didn’t think my breasts grew over the winter, but maybe I just got used to seeing them smaller.
I moved to the fire and held out a hand, feeling the heat from the flames.
It was going to take a while to get my hair dry, but I didn’t want to take the time to pin it up when I could be getting ready for my new client.
Mrs. Jenkins would likely be by with her tea and scones before I was finished, and I didn’t want to make her wait.
I turned my head, feeling the heat on one side and then the other.
It wasn’t until I heard the horse's hooves outside that I realized how long it had taken me to get ready.
"Damn," I muttered, setting down the brush and grabbing up my gown.
I didn’t take the time to button the back, knowing it would be easier once I had help.
I rushed out of the cottage and into the main house, hoping Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t standing at the door with my tea in her hand.
She was a hard woman, but fair as long as you did your part.
I moved through the dimly lit hallway, my unlaced gown trailing behind me.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, and I tried to step lightly as I passed the furniture that had been there for decades.
The tapestries were faded and worn, but they were still beautiful in their own way.
I could see the sun rising through the window on the other side of the hall, casting a golden glow over everything.
As I approached the door, I saw Mrs. Jenkins making her way up the path with her usual tray of morning refreshments.
Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and she balanced the steaming pot with practiced ease.
I reached for the iron door handle, but my loose gown caught on a nail protruding from the doorframe.
I heard the fabric tear with a sharp rip as I yanked it free, just as Mrs. Jenkins raised her hand to knock.
My fingers fumbled with the torn fabric as I heard her footsteps approaching.
The rip ran along my side, exposing the stays underneath - exactly what I didn’t want Mrs. Jenkins to see.
I heard her clearing her throat outside, the familiar clink of teacups on her tray.
Taking a deep breath, I tugged the loose fabric and tucked it in as best I could.
I pulled the door open before she could knock again.
The morning light streamed in behind her stocky figure, and I forced my brightest smile despite my disheveled state.
"Good morning, Mrs. Jenkins," I said, stepping aside to let her in, determined to face whatever came next with grace.
Mrs. Jenkins stepped past me into the cottage, her eyes catching on the torn fabric at my hip but moving past it without comment.
She set the tea tray on the small oak table near the window, the familiar ritual of arranging cups and saucers filling the awkward silence.
I fidgeted with the loose material, trying to keep it from slipping further as she poured the steaming tea.
The rich aroma of fresh scones mixed with the morning air drifting through the window.
When she handed me my cup, her weathered fingers brushed mine with a gentle squeeze, and she began discussing the day's weather as if nothing was amiss.
I sipped the tea, grateful for her unspoken understanding, and resolved to mend both my gown and my courage before the day was through.
After Mrs. Jenkins finished pouring the tea, I gathered my courage and held up the torn section of my gown.
"I hate to ask, but do you know how to mend this?"
I asked, my fingers tracing the jagged tear where the fabric had caught.
She set her teacup down and came over to examine the damage.
Her weathered hands were gentle on the fine material as she turned me slightly to catch the morning light streaming through the window.
The tear was worse than I'd first thought; loose threads trailed from the edge, and the rip was wider than I'd realized.
Mrs. Jenkins clicked her tongue in disapproval.
She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small sewing kit she always carried with her.
"Sit down, girl," she said, threading a needle.
"We've got more to mend than just this dress, don't we?" she added, her voice soft but knowing.
I hesitated, the weight of her words settling over me like a heavy quilt.
"Yes," I admitted quietly, "there's much that needs stitching back together."
I watch Mrs. Jenkins thread her needle with practiced ease, her thick fingers surprisingly nimble as she works the fine thread through the eye.
The chair creaks as I settle into it, smoothing my skirts around me while she positions herself closer, her sewing basket on the floor beside her.
The tear spans nearly six inches along my hip, exposing the white linen of my stays beneath.
Mrs. Jenkins works methodically, her stitches small and even.
I sip my cooling tea, watching her hands move deftly over the fabric.
Neither of us speaks as she repairs the damage, though I catch her eyes flickering to my face whenever the needle catches a particularly stubborn piece of fabric.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice low and steady.
"There's talk in the village about your father," she said, not looking up from her work.
I felt my heart skip a beat, the room suddenly too warm despite the morning chill.
My hands tremble slightly as I set the teacup down, spilling a few drops onto the wooden table.
Mrs. Jenkins continues her precise stitching, not looking up.
"He's been seen at The Crown tavern, asking questions about you," she continued.
"Word is he's telling people he has unfinished business with his daughter."
The needle weaves in and out of the fabric, each stitch a small, deliberate motion.
I grip the edge of my chair, my knuckles white against the worn wood.
I can almost hear his voice, low and menacing as he asks about me.
It's been years since I fled his house in the dead of night, but the memory still burns like a brand in my mind.
Mrs. Jenkins ties off the final stitch and cuts the thread with a small pair of scissors.
When she looks up, her eyes meet mine with a mix of concern and determination.
"Your father's been asking questions," she repeats, her voice steady.
"But that doesn't mean you're not safe here."
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to ask the question that's burning in my throat.
"What should I do if he finds me?"
Mrs. Jenkins glances up at me, her eyes serious.
"There's an old mill at the edge of town," she says, her voice low.
"It's a sturdy stone building, been there for generations. My late husband used to store grain there."
She pauses, her fingers tracing the stitches on my gown.
"I still have the key."
I look down at the teacup in my hands, empty except for the dregs of tea that have settled at the bottom.
The delicate china is cool against my fingertips as I turn it slowly, watching the light catch the intricate patterns painted along its rim.
Mrs. Jenkins continues speaking, her words weaving a picture in my mind of a place I've never seen.
"The mill is abandoned now," she says, "but it's still standing. You can find it by following the river east from town. It's hidden behind a copse of trees, but you can't miss it if you look closely."
I set the teacup down carefully on the table, my fingers tracing the fresh stitches in my gown.
They're small and even, just like Mrs. Jenkins' words.
"The room is hidden behind the grinding stones," she explains.
"It's not large, but it's dry and safe. There's a window that looks out over the river."
I can almost see it: the sunlight catching the dust motes that dance in the air, the sound of rushing water outside mingling with the scent of damp earth and old grain. Mrs. Jenkins reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small iron key.
It looks ancient, its surface worn smooth by time and use.
She holds it out to me, her eyes steady.
"If you ever need a place to hide," she says quietly, "you know where to go."
I hesitate for a moment before taking the key from her hand.
The metal feels heavy against my palm, its weight solid and reassuring.
The thought of hiding like a frightened child makes my throat tight, but I know better than to turn down help when it's offered.
"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nods, her gaze unwavering. "Just remember, you're not alone in this."
I clutch the key tightly, feeling the warmth of her words settle around me like a protective cloak.
After Mrs. Jenkins leaves, I gather my cloak and the iron key she gave me.
I have an appointment with one of the village women this afternoon, but I want to find the mill before then.
Following Mrs. Jenkins' directions, I walk along the muddy riverbank, keeping the water to my right.
The morning fog is lifting slowly, revealing the rolling hills and green fields beyond the town.
As I pass a copse of trees, I catch sight of weathered stone walls in the distance.
The mill is just as Mrs. Jenkins described it: a sturdy building with broken shutters and a crooked chimney.
I push open the creaky door and step inside, my footsteps echoing off the walls.
The air is thick with dust, and motes dance in the light that filters through broken windows.
I can see the grinding stones in the center of the room, cold and silent.
I run my fingers along the wall behind them until I feel a slight groove.
The key fits perfectly into a hidden lock, and I hear a soft click as it disengages.
I push the door open, and a faint musty scent wafts out.
The room is small, barely large enough for a narrow bed and a chest of drawers.
Weak sunlight filters through a grimy window, casting a pale glow over everything.
There's an old rocking chair in the corner, its woven seat sagging with age.
A shelf on one wall holds a few leather-bound books and some tarnished candlesticks.
I step further into the room, my boots leaving prints in the thick dust that coats the floor.
As I move, I sneeze softly, disturbing years of settled particles.
The air feels heavy with history, as if it's been holding its breath waiting for someone to return.
I run my fingers along the rough stone walls, circling the room slowly.
It's not large, but it could be made livable with a little effort.
I can imagine myself curled up in that rocking chair, watching the sun set over the river outside. As I pass behind the bed, I notice that one of the stones seems slightly loose.
I press on it gently, and it gives way beneath my touch.
A small hollow opens up, just large enough to hide a few precious items.
I hear a soft voice behind me, startling me.
"Didn't expect to find anyone here," says a young man, his eyes wide with surprise.
I turn quickly, clutching the key in my pocket. "Who are you?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
I study his face in the dim light filtering through the grimy window.
He's young, probably not much older than me, with a strong jawline and dark hair that falls across his forehead.
He's dressed plainly in a brown coat and scuffed boots, but there's something about the way he holds himself that suggests he's more than just a laborer.
When he takes a step closer, I back against the wall near the loose stone, keeping the hiding spot hidden behind me.
"Easy now," he says, holding up his hands to show they're empty.
"I'm not looking for trouble."
I keep my fingers wrapped tightly around the key in my pocket, ready to defend myself if necessary.
"Who are you?" I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady.
He takes another step forward, and I can see that his eyes are a deep brown, almost black in this light.
"I work for Mrs. Jenkins," he says quietly.
"She sends me out here every month to check on the room."
I glance at the floor, where my boots have left tracks in the dust.
"It looks like no one has been here in years," I say warily. He nods slowly, his gaze following mine to the floor.
"That's true," he admits.
"But Mrs. Jenkins likes to be sure. She's a careful woman."
I frown slightly, trying to read between his words.
There's something about his story that doesn't quite add up.
If Mrs. Jenkins really did send him here, why wouldn't she have mentioned it to me?
"Why should I believe you?" I ask finally, my voice firm.
He hesitates for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small piece of paper.
It looks like a receipt of some kind, creased from being folded and tucked away.
He holds it out to me, his hand steady.
"This is from Mrs. Jenkins," he explains quietly.
I take the paper from him cautiously, unfolding it to see Mrs. Jenkins' familiar handwriting.
"She asked me to bring supplies next week," he continues, his voice earnest.
"If you don't believe me, you can ask her yourself."
I study the receipt carefully, looking for any sign of forgery.
It looks genuine enough, but I still can't shake the feeling that something is off.
The dust patterns on the floor suggest that no one has been here in years, and Mrs. Jenkins is usually meticulous about sharing important details with me.
When he takes a step closer, I shift slightly toward the door, keeping the loose stone and its hiding spot behind me.
He notices my wariness and backs away, his hands raised in a calming gesture.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises softly.
"I just need to check on the room."
I hold his gaze for a long moment before nodding slowly.
"Alright," I say finally.
"But I need to speak with Mrs. Jenkins first."
He nods too quickly, his eyes flicking toward the door as if he's eager to leave.
"I'll come back tomorrow," he says hastily.
"I'll make sure to bring everything she asked for."
As he turns to go, I memorize his features - just in case.
He has a small scar above his left eyebrow and a crooked grin that makes him look younger than he probably is.
I hurry after him, my skirts catching on the rough doorframe as I follow him out of the mill.
The morning fog has lifted, revealing the sun climbing higher in the sky.
He moves quickly along the riverbank, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each step.
I keep a safe distance behind him, my eyes fixed on his retreating figure.
As we make our way through town, I duck behind market stalls whenever he glances back over his shoulder.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I can feel sweat trickling down my spine.
We pass by The Crown tavern, where my father could be sitting with a mug of ale in his hand.
I pray that he doesn't see me following this stranger through the streets.
Eventually, the young man turns down a narrow lane that leads to Mrs. Jenkins' house.
I quicken my pace, determined to reach them before they have a chance to speak.
My fingers tighten around the iron key in my pocket as I hurry after him. When he reaches Mrs. Jenkins' door, I'm only a few steps behind him.
I call out her name just as he's about to knock, and she appears in the doorway looking confused.
"Emmeline?" she says, her brow furrowed with concern.