Naomi POV
I have had a very eventful day.
The morning started slow, but now the sun is high, and I feel like I have already lived a week in this house.
Every corner holds something new. Every person carries a story.
I sit at the long wooden table in the kitchen, a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.
The kitchen is warm, nothing like the cold hallways upstairs. Pots hang from hooks.
The smell of coffee fills the air. And Mary, the cook, moves around the stove like she has been here forever.
I met Mary this morning. She has gray hair pulled into a bun and arms that look strong from years of kneading dough.
She took one look at me and said, "You're too thin. Sit. Eat."
So I am eating.
Across from me sits Amara. I did not meet her when I arrived yesterday.
She is the young maid, maybe nineteen or twenty, with skin like milk and curls that fall past her shoulders.
She is beautiful in a way that makes me want to stare, but I do not. That would be rude.
She told me she lost her father last month. Cancer. The same sickness that took my mama.
When she said it, her voice cracked, and I reached across the table without thinking and touched her hand.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I know how that feels."
She looked at me with wet eyes and nodded. She did not pull her hand away.
Now she picks at her eggs, pushing them around the plate with her fork. She has not eaten much. I understand.
"Finish up your meal, child," Mary says, pointing a wooden spoon at me. "Stop picking at it like a bird."
I look down at my plate. I have been pushing my eggs too, lost in thought. I smile and sit up straighter.
"Yes, ma'am." I salute playfully, like a cop in an old movie.
Mary shakes her head, but her eyes crinkle at the corners. "You're a strange one, aren't you?"
"I try my best, ma'am."
She laughs. It is a warm sound, like bread fresh from the oven.
Amara looks up, and for the first time this morning, she smiles. Small. But real.
"You're funny," Amara says softly.
"Sometimes," I say. "When I'm not being sad."
The words hang in the air. Mary busies herself at the stove. Amara looks down again.
I take a big bite of toast to fill the silence.
The truth is, I love this. The warmth of the kitchen. The clatter of dishes.
Mary's teasing. Amara's quiet company. There is so much positive energy here, so much support.
It feels like a family, even though we are all just workers in a cold man's house.
I take a sip of water and glance around. On the counter, I see a tray with a silver coffee pot, a white cup, and a plate of toast, already buttered.
Mary is arranging it carefully, like she is presenting art.
"That looks nice," I say.
Mary does not look up. "It's for Mr. Aaron. He takes his breakfast in the dining room. Alone."
"Always alone?"
"Always." Mary's voice drops. "He doesn't like company in the mornings. Or any time, really."
I think of Kaelen's gray eyes, cold as winter.
I think of his voice, flat and sharp, telling me I am nothing. I shiver, even though the kitchen is warm.
"You both had better eat quick and disperse," Mary says, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Before Mr. Aaron comes downstairs for breakfast.
He does not like people in his way."
Amara stands immediately, her chair scraping the floor. She gathers her plate and carries it to the sink. Her hands move fast, like she is afraid.
I take one more bite of toast, then stand too. I carry my plate to the sink and rinse it under warm water.
Amara stands beside me, drying her hands on a towel.
"Amara," I say quietly. "You are very beautiful. Have you ever thought about modeling?"
She freezes. Her cheeks turn pink. "Me? No. I'm just... I'm just a maid."
"You could be more." I mean it. Her face is the kind you see on magazine covers. Full lips, dark brows, skin that glows without makeup.
She shakes her head, but she is smiling. "You're too kind, Naomi."
"I'm not kind. I'm honest."
Mary snorts from the stove. "She's honest and kind. That's a rare combination. Don't waste it."
I laugh. Amara giggles, covering her mouth with her hand.
For a moment, the kitchen feels like a safe place. Like the storm outside cannot reach us here.
Then I hear footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.
The air changes. The warmth drains.
I turn and see Mr. Aaron walking down the stairs.
He moves like a king descending to his throne—each step measured, powerful, cold.
His suit is black. His tie is dark gray. His face is carved from stone.
Behind him, Amara walks with her head bent low.
Her hands are clasped in front of her. She does not look up. She does not smile.
She follows him to the dining room like a shadow.
Mr. Aaron passes the kitchen doorway without looking in.
He does not spare me a single glance.
He sits at the head of the dining table, and Amara hurries to pour his coffee.
"Bring me my tray, Amara," he orders. His voice is sharp, a blade wrapped in silk.
"Yes, sir," she whispers. Her voice is so low I almost cannot hear it.
She disappears into the kitchen, takes the tray from Mary, and carries it to him with trembling hands.
I stand by the sink, holding a wet plate, watching through the doorway.
He lifts the coffee cup to his lips without looking at her. Without thanking her.
This man really hates everyone, I think. Not just me.
"Miss Abbot."
I jump. He is looking at me now. His gray eyes cut through the distance like knives.
"I believe you were leaving." His voice is flat. Final.
I feel my face heat up. Embarrassment crawls up my neck and into my cheeks.
"Yes, sir. Excuse me."
I dry my hands on a towel, set the plate in the rack, and hurry out of the kitchen.
My footsteps echo on the marble floor. I do not look back.
I do not want to see his cold eyes following me.
I climb the stairs quickly, my heart pounding. Why does he hate me so much? I have not done anything wrong.
I am kind to his son. I am polite to his staff. I show up on time—well, mostly.
But his eyes. They look at me like I am something stuck to his shoe.
I reach the top of the stairs and turn down the hallway toward the nursery.
The door is slightly open. I push it gently and step inside.
The room is soft, warm. Blue walls. Books on low shelves. A small bed with a blue blanket.
And there, curled under the blanket with his stuffed wolf pressed to his chest, is Alex.
He is awake. His gray eyes blink at me from the pillow.
"Naomi," he says. His voice is small, sleepy.
I smile and sit on the edge of his bed. "Good morning, little one. Did you sleep well?"
He nods. Then he reaches out and touches my hand. His fingers are tiny, warm.
"Don't go," he whispers.
My heart cracks. I squeeze his fingers gently.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "I promise."
He smiles. It is small, shy, but real.
And in that moment, I forget about Kaelen's cold eyes.
I forget about the marble floors and the heavy silence. I forget that I am nothing in this house.
Because to this boy, I am something.
And that is enough.
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