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.”
Naomi cleaned it at once. In her haste, she bumped a perfume bottle but caught it before it fell. Rose slapped her anyway.
“You’re clumsy.”
Naomi’s eyes burned, but she bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
Unseen, Mr. Femi Richards, the billionaire himself, watched quietly from the hallway. His gray eyes softened at Naomi’s endurance, but he said nothing.
Naomi had made her vow: she would not run. Not while Deborah needed her.
