This house, it’s not by early morning.

Oh no, it’s by surviving Madam’s mouth.

Right on cue, the soft shuffle of slippers echoed through the kitchen—controlled, deliberate, laced with anger.

Madam Rose entered, her silk robe cinched tightly at the waist, phone clutched firmly in one hand. Her presence filled the room like a storm about to break.

“Where’s my lemon water?” she demanded sharply, eyes scanning the space like a hawk hunting prey.

Mama Ronkey, the ever-anxious housekeeper, hurried forward, breath catching mid-sentence.

“I was just about to—”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Madam Rose cut in, her voice cold as ice. Her gaze pivoted to Naomi, the newest member of the household staff.

Naomi, wiping her hands on her apron, bowed her head slightly, voice soft but steady. “I’ll get it now, Ma.”

Madam Rose’s eyes narrowed, piercing through the dim light. “Room temperature. Not cold, not warm. Just right. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Because if I take one sip and my throat feels like it’s entered a sauna, you will regret your life.”

Naomi nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Yes, Ma.”

She selected a glass carefully, pouring water from the dispenser with practiced precision. Two slices of lemon floated gently on the surface, their scent faint but fresh. With measured steps, steady hands, and quiet feet, Naomi ascended the marble stairs to Madam Rose’s room.

She knocked softly. “Ma, your water.”

“Come in.”

The room was immaculate—golden curtains draped elegantly, perfume bottles glittering on the dresser like jewels in a crown. A small white dog lounged on the bed, regal and unbothered by the tension in the air.

Naomi placed the tray gently on the side table. No thanks came.

Madam Rose took the glass, sipped, paused.

Naomi’s heart pounded in her chest.

Then, a smirk—sharp, knowing.

“You’re lucky,” Madam Rose said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You got it right.”

Relief flooded Naomi’s veins, fleeting and fragile.

But just as she turned to leave, Madam Rose’s voice cut through the silence again.

“There’s a stain on the bathroom sink.”

Naomi froze.

“I hate stains.”

“I’ll clean it now, Ma.”

The bathroom was pristine, save for a faint rust-colored mark near the faucet—likely from someone’s ring. Without hesitation, Naomi grabbed the cleaning spray, scrubbing gently but thoroughly. Every motion was careful, focused.

Then, thud!

Her shoulder brushed a perfume bottle perched precariously on the edge of the sink.

It wobbled.

She caught it just in time, breath hitching.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips.

Turning around, Naomi found Madam Rose standing at the doorway, arms folded like a judge ready to pass sentence.

Before Naomi could speak, a sharp slap landed across her cheek.

Her head snapped sideways from the force.

“You’re clumsy,” Madam Rose hissed, eyes cold and unforgiving. “I don’t like clumsy people.”

Naomi’s eyes burned, tears threatening to spill, but she blinked them back fiercely.

She bowed her head, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

Gently, she picked up the perfume bottle, aligning it perfectly with the others. Her hands trembled, but her spirit remained unbroken.

“You’ll clean the guest room next,” Madam Rose commanded, sinking into the bed with her phone in hand. “And iron the bed sheet while it’s on the bed. I don’t like rumples.”

Naomi nodded once more. “Yes, Ma.”

As she left the room, Mr. Femi stood in the hallway.

His gray beard was impeccably groomed, his face calm but worn from years of silent observation.

Their eyes met.

He said nothing, but Naomi caught the flicker in his gaze.

Pity.

But she didn’t need pity.

She needed that salary.

She passed him without a word and headed straight to the guest room.

Because in Naomi’s heart, one thing was clear—

She would not leave.

Not until her daughter could live.

By the third day, everyone in the house was watching.

Naomi hadn’t cried.

She hadn’t shouted.

She hadn’t packed her bag and run like the others.

But Madam Rose wasn’t done.

Not even close.

She didn’t like being ignored.

She didn’t like being studied.

And something about Naomi’s silence felt like defiance.

So, she turned the temperature up.

First came the missing uniforms.

Naomi had just finished cleaning the guest room when she returned to her quarters to find her uniform gone.

All that remained in the cupboard was a see-through lace nightgown that was clearly not hers.

Naomi said nothing.

She stepped out wearing a faded t-shirt and her own wrapper.

The housekeeper gasped.

“You’re going out like that?”

Naomi’s reply was calm, almost serene.

“It’s clean. It’s decent. It’s enough.”

Later that day, Madam Rose descended the stairs.

She took one look at Naomi and smiled.

Slowly.

Mockingly.

“Did you sleep in the gutter, or are you just dressing to match the mop?”

Some of the staff chuckled nervously.

Naomi didn’t respond.

She bowed, picked up the mop, and kept working.

But the more she didn’t react, the more unsettled Madam Rose became.

Then came the accidents.

The broom slipped from Naomi’s grasp, shattering against the tiled floor.

A tray of dishes tipped over, porcelain crashing like gunfire.

A glass cracked in her hand, jagged edges biting into her palm.

Each mistake was met with a sharper glare, a colder word.

“You’re careless,” Madam Rose said, voice low and venomous.

“I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

Naomi’s back straightened.

Her jaw clenched.

She would not give her tormentor the satisfaction of tears.

Night after night, Naomi lay awake on the thin mattress in her cramped quarters.

The muffled sounds of Madam Rose’s phone calls, the barking of the little white dog, and the distant hum of the city outside her window.

Her mind raced with worries.

Her daughter’s face haunted her dreams.

She imagined a future where her child could breathe freely, go to school, laugh without fear.

This house was a cage.

But it was the only way.

One evening, Mr. Femi approached Naomi quietly as she scrubbed the kitchen floor.

“Naomi,” he said softly, “you have strength.”

She looked up, surprised.

“I see it.”

She swallowed hard.

“Thank you, sir.”

He nodded, then added, “But strength alone will not save you here.”

Naomi’s eyes met his, searching.

“What do you mean?”

“Madam Rose is a storm. You must learn to weather it, or you will break.”

Naomi nodded slowly.

“I will not break.”

Days turned into weeks.

Naomi’s resilience grew.

She learned to anticipate Madam Rose’s moods, to tread lightly around her tempers.

She found small moments of peace—the laughter of the white dog, the soft glow of morning light through the gold curtains, the rare smile from Mr. Femi.

And through it all, she held onto hope.

Hope that one day, she and her daughter would be free.

The house was not kind.

But Naomi was stronger.

Because survival was not just about enduring Madam Rose’s wrath.

It was about fighting for a future.

A future where love and dignity could flourish, even in the darkest of places.

End of story excerpt.