Chapter 3 - Naomi

Las Vegas didn’t look real.

 

It rose out of the desert in glass, light, and noise, too bright even under the afternoon sun. Billboards towered over the highway, promising money, women, music, magic, and things I couldn’t fully understand from the pictures alone.

 

By the time the bus pulled into the terminal, my back ached, my mouth was dry, and my stomach had been empty for hours.

 

I waited until most of the other passengers stood before I reached for my bag. My legs trembled when I stepped into the aisle, stiff from sitting and weak from hunger.

 

The station was louder than the one I’d left behind. People talked over each other, phones rang, machines beeped, and a baby cried somewhere near the ticket counters. Outside, car horns and engines blended into a constant roar.

 

No one noticed me.

 

That should’ve been comforting.

 

Instead, it made me feel smaller.

 

I adjusted the strap of my bag and walked toward the exit, trying to imitate the confidence of everyone around me. People moved quickly, like they knew exactly where they were going and expected the world to move aside.

 

I had a notebook full of plans.

 

That wasn’t the same as knowing what to do.

 

Heat struck me the moment the doors slid open. The air felt dry enough to pull the moisture from my skin. Across the street, a line of taxis waited beside signs for rideshare pickups, shuttle services, and local buses.

 

I understood none of them.

 

A taxi seemed simplest until I saw the posted starting fare.

 

I counted the money in my bag without taking it out. Nineteen dollars and change after the bus ticket and the stale crackers I’d bought during a stop.

 

A motel could take most of that.

 

Food would take more.

 

Transportation would leave almost nothing.

 

I stepped away from the curb before a driver could ask where I was going.

 

That question had felt powerful at the ticket counter.

 

Here, it terrified me.

 

I didn’t have an address. I didn’t know which neighborhoods were safe or how far anything was. The cheap motels I’d written down looked close together on the map, but maps didn’t show distance the way tired feet understood it.

 

I opened my notebook and traced one route with my finger.

 

Bus line 108. Transfer at Bonneville. Walk six blocks.

 

It sounded simple.

 

The route sign might as well have been written in another language.

 

A couple passed me holding hands, the woman wearing a dress shorter than anything I’d ever owned. The man kissed her neck without shame, right there beside the station entrance.

 

I looked away too quickly.

 

Father had warned that cities like this stripped people of modesty and made sin ordinary.

 

He’d been right about one thing.

 

No one here seemed afraid of being seen.

 

A laugh burst from a nearby group, and I flinched before forcing myself to keep walking. I wouldn’t stare. I wouldn’t act lost. Lost girls attracted the wrong kind of attention.

 

I found a vending machine and studied the prices.

 

Two dollars for water.

 

Almost three for a small package of crackers.

 

My stomach cramped.

 

I bought the water.

 

Hunger could wait. Dehydration felt more immediate, and I needed to think clearly.

 

I drank half the bottle too quickly, then sat on a bench beneath the shade and opened my notebook again.

 

Motel.

 

Job.

 

Food.

 

Those were the priorities.

 

I added the numbers in the margins to calculate how many nights I could afford if I found the cheapest room on my list. One, maybe two, and only if I barely ate.

 

That wasn’t enough time.

 

Panic pressed against my ribs, but I pushed it down.

 

I was good with numbers. I could organize records, balance accounts, track supplies, and find discrepancies Father missed. Somewhere in this city, someone needed those skills.

 

I only had to find them before my money ran out.

 

I closed the notebook and stood.

 

The lights of Las Vegas hadn’t even come alive yet, and already the city felt too large to hold in my mind.

 

Still, it was mine to face.

 

I tightened my grip on the bag and started toward the bus signs.

 

The first motel on my list was farther than 6 blocks away.

 

It took nearly an hour, one wrong bus, and a walk through streets that all seemed to curve back toward the same flashing signs before I found it. The building looked older than the picture I’d copied from the library computer. Faded paint peeled around the doors, and two men smoked beside the office while watching everyone who passed.

 

I told myself not to judge.

 

A room was a room.

 

The woman behind the counter barely glanced up from her magazine.

 

“One night,” I said, trying to sound certain.

 

“Sixty-eight plus tax. Hundred-dollar deposit.”

 

My stomach dropped. “The website said thirty-nine.”

 

“That’s weekday online pricing. Plus resort f*e.”

 

“This isn’t a resort.”

 

She finally looked at me. “Then sleep somewhere else.”

 

Heat crawled up my neck. I thanked her anyway because manners were difficult to abandon, even when someone didn’t deserve them.

 

Outside, one of the men by the door smiled. “Need a place to stay, sweetheart?”

 

“No.”

 

“I know somewhere cheaper.”

 

“I said no.” My voice came out firmer than I felt. I walked away without looking back, though I could hear him laughing.

 

The next two hours went no better.

 

A small accounting office had a HELP WANTED sign in the window, but the receptionist frowned when I explained my experience.

 

“You’re nineteen?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Bookkeeping certification?”

 

“No, but I managed household accounts for years. Food, livestock, supplies, debts, seasonal expenses. I can balance ledgers and identify discrepancies.”

 

“References?”

 

I hesitated. “Not local ones.”

 

“Any professional references?”

 

“No.”

 

She gave me a polite smile that closed the conversation before she spoke. “We need someone with formal experience.”

 

At a hotel, the desk manager asked for my address. When I admitted I didn’t have one yet, his interest vanished.

 

A restaurant offered me a hostess position until the manager realized I didn’t own a phone. He said they needed someone available for scheduling changes.

 

Each rejection took something from me.

 

Confidence. Time. Money.

 

By late afternoon, I’d spent four dollars on bus fare and another three on a sandwich I divided in half so it would count as dinner, too. My feet throbbed inside my shoes, and sweat dampened the back of my blouse.

 

I sat beneath the awning of a closed storefront and recalculated everything.

 

Fifteen dollars and twelve cents.

 

Not enough for a room.

 

Barely enough for food.

 

Not enough to survive more than a few days.

 

The truth settled over me slowly.

 

Leaving had been the easy part.

 

Staying gone would cost more than courage.

 

For one dangerous moment, I imagined calling home. Father would come. Hannah would cry. Gideon would publicly forgive me and privately punish me.

 

No.

 

I closed my notebook.

 

I would sleep at the station before I went back.

 

I’d go hungry before I became someone’s fourth wife.

 

But as the sun lowered and the city lights began to burn brighter, Las Vegas stopped feeling like freedom.

 

It felt like a mouth opening around me.

 

I returned to the bus station before complete darkness settled.

 

The benches inside were full, so I found a place near the wall where I could keep my bag between my feet. The building felt safer than the street, but only slightly. Security guards passed every few minutes, and signs warned that loitering wasn’t allowed.

 

I wasn’t sure how long it would take before someone asked me to leave.

 

“You look like you’ve had a difficult day.” The voice came from my right.

 

A man stood several feet away, far enough not to crowd me. He wore a charcoal suit without a tie, his dark hair neatly combed and his shoes polished enough to catch the station lights.

 

Everything about him looked expensive.

 

“I’m fine,” I said.

 

His gaze dropped briefly to my bag, then to the notebook resting in my lap. “Of course.” He didn’t sound convinced.

 

I closed the notebook. “Can I help you?”

 

“My name is Cyrus Dantalion.” He reached into his jacket slowly and removed a black business card. “I recruit for Obsidian House.”

 

I didn’t take it.

 

His smile remained patient as he placed it on the empty seat beside me.

 

The card was thick, silver-edged, with the name of a casino and resort embossed across the center. Beneath it were an address, telephone number, and what appeared to be a professional title.

 

Director of Operations.

 

“I’m not interested in gambling,” I said.

 

“Good. Most employees aren’t hired to gamble.”

 

“What kind of employees?”

 

“Administrative staff. Guest services. Hospitality. Accounting. It depends on experience.”

 

The word accounting caught my attention before I could hide it.

 

Cyrus noticed.

 

“You’re good with numbers?”

 

“I managed household books.”

 

“Formal training?”

 

“No.”

 

“Doesn’t always matter.”

 

Every employer I’d spoken to that day had disagreed.

 

He sat in the chair across from me instead of beside me.

 

“Local address?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Phone?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Family nearby?”

 

The questions came gently, but I felt something beneath them. He was building a picture of me piece by piece.

 

“I can take care of myself.”

 

“I don’t doubt it.”

 

He reached into a leather folder and pulled out a glossy booklet. The cover showed a towering black casino surrounded by lights. Inside were photographs of restaurants, hotel rooms, offices, and smiling employees dressed in elegant uniforms.

 

“Obsidian House provides staff housing for select positions,” he explained. “Meals during shifts, steady pay, transportation if needed. We’re expanding several departments.”

 

It sounded too perfect.

 

“What would I be doing?”

 

“That depends on your assessment. If your bookkeeping skills are as strong as you claim, likely records, scheduling, or account support.”

 

“And why are you offering this to me?”

 

His expression softened. “Because you’ve been checking bus routes, adding expenses, and crossing out motels for the last twenty minutes. Most people panic when they’re lost. You make lists.”

 

Heat crept into my face. “I’m not lost.”

 

“No,” he agreed. “You’re starting over.”

 

The words landed too close to the truth.

 

Cyrus slid the booklet toward me. “You don’t have to decide now. Read through the information. Call the number. Verify everything.”

 

I opened to the employment page. There were license numbers, contact information, and photographs of offices that looked more professional than any I’d ever been to.

 

For the first time all day, someone saw my skills instead of everything I lacked.

 

That should’ve comforted me.

 

Instead, I held the booklet a little tighter. “What’s the catch?”

 

His smile widened. “No catch. Just an opportunity.”

 

Cyrus offered to take me to Obsidian House for a formal interview.

 

I should’ve said no.

 

Instead, I followed him to a black town car waiting outside the station.

 

The casino was even larger in person, all dark glass and silver light. Cyrus guided me through a private entrance and into an office where a contract waited beside a pen.

 

“Take your time,” he said.

 

I did.

 

The document was 12 pages long and filled with language that sounded important but didn’t clearly say much. Guest interaction. Private hospitality. Discretion. Performance-based compensation. Confidentiality regarding clients, services, and internal operations.

 

I read every page.

 

“What does ‘expanded guest accommodation’ mean?” I asked.

 

“Specialized requests. Private events. High-value clients sometimes want a more personal level of attention.”

 

“What kind of attention?”

 

“Conversation. Company. Helping create an experience.” That still wasn’t an answer.

 

I pointed to another section. “This says I agree to appearance standards and wardrobe requirements.”

 

“Uniforms,” Cyrus said easily. “Every luxury property has them.”

 

“And this clause about reassignment?”

 

“It protects the house if one department isn’t the right fit. You wouldn’t lose your housing while we found another placement.”

 

Housing.

 

My eyes dropped to the line confirming a furnished room, meals during scheduled shifts, and immediate placement upon signing.

 

I had fifteen dollars left.

 

No phone.

 

No address.

 

Nowhere to sleep.

 

“This says there may be performance bonuses.”

 

“There are,” Cyrus said. “Some guests are extremely generous.”

 

I looked at him. “Would I be required to do anything I didn’t want to do?”

 

“Obsidian House is built on consent,” he replied.

 

The answer should’ve reassured me. It almost did.

 

I read the final page twice before signing my name.

 

Naomi Claire Barlow.

 

The ink looked darker than it should have.

 

Cyrus collected the papers and stood. “Welcome to Obsidian House.” He stepped into the hallway while I remained seated, staring at my signature.

 

Through the open door, I watched him take out his phone. His voice dropped too low for me to hear. A moment later, my own new employee file appeared on the tablet beside him.

 

Cyrus smiled as he typed.

 

Exactly what the client requested.