“This is the third time someone blocks my walkway,” Rose said coldly. “Clean it again.”
Naomi swallowed her pride. She bent down and started over. In the hallway, another servant whispered, “She won’t last.” But Naomi had buried her pride long ago in hospital corridors, begging doctors to save her daughter’s life. She was not soft—she was steel wrapped in silence.
The next morning, she was up before dawn, sweeping the driveway and polishing the glass doors. In the kitchen, she stood beside Mama Ronke, the chef, when Rose appeared demanding lemon water. Naomi carefully sliced two wedges, balanced the tray, and delivered it upstairs. Rose tasted it, smirked, and said, “You’re lucky. You got it right.”
But as Naomi turned to leave, she heard Rose’s sharp voice again: “There’s a stain on the sink. I hate stains.” Naomi cleaned it instantly, only to bump into a perfume bottle. She caught it just in time, but Rose slapped her across the face anyway.
“You’re clumsy,” she spat.
Naomi’s eyes burned, but she bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
Unseen, Mr. Femi Richards, the billionaire himself, stood in the hallway. His gray eyes softened as he watched Naomi’s quiet endurance. He didn’t intervene, but something in her steadiness unsettled even him.
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