On her first morning, Naomi tied a scarf over her hair and began mopping the wide marble floor. The house was still, until the sharp rhythm of heels echoed down the staircase.

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.