Madame Rose descended in a silk robe, her presence filling the room. Without a word, she tipped Naomi’s bucket across the floor. Water splashed wide, soaking Naomi’s shoes.

“This is the third time someone blocks my walkway,” Rose said coldly. “Clean it again.”

Naomi swallowed her pride, bent down, and started over. From the hallway, another servant whispered, “She won’t last.”

But Naomi’s pride had been buried long ago in hospital corridors, begging doctors to save her daughter. She was not soft—she was steel wrapped in silence.

The next day, Naomi rose before dawn. She swept the driveway, polished the glass doors, wiped dust from carved tables.

In the kitchen, she worked beside Mama Ronke, the family cook, when Rose demanded lemon water. Naomi sliced carefully, balanced the tray, and carried it upstairs. Rose took a sip, smirked, and said, “You’re lucky. You got it right.”

As Naomi turned to leave, Rose’s voice cut again: “There’s a stain on the sink. I hate stains.”