Chapter 5 - Naomi

I woke before the alarm.

 

For several seconds, I didn’t know where I was.

 

The mattress beneath me was too soft. The room was too quiet. No one moved in the hallway outside, no child cried from another bedroom, and no footsteps crossed the floorboards above me.

 

Then I remembered.

 

Obsidian House.

 

Staff housing.

 

Las Vegas.

 

I sat up slowly and looked around the small room I’d been given. It wasn’t luxurious, but to me, it felt impossible. A bed of my own. A dresser. A desk. A bathroom with a lock on the door.

 

A lock I controlled.

 

That mattered more than anything else.

 

Folded clothes waited on the chair beside the bed. Two black skirts. Three white blouses. A pair of trousers. Shoes that fit better than the ones I’d arrived in.

 

In the bathroom, someone had left soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and other things I’d never thought of as generous until they were handed to me without conditions.

 

At home, every item belonged to the household.

 

Here, these were mine.

 

A soft knock came at the door.

 

I stiffened, then remembered no one could enter without permission.

 

“Breakfast delivery,” a woman called.

 

I opened the door to find a tray on a small cart. Eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, and a printed schedule rested beneath a silver cover.

 

“Thank you,” I said.

 

The woman smiled. “You’re welcome.”

 

Then she left.

 

No questions.

 

No reminder of what I owed.

 

No lecture about gratitude.

 

I ate slowly, though hunger urged me to rush. The schedule said I needed to report to administrative support at eight. Orientation, account access, records training, lunch, then inventory reconciliation.

 

Structure.

 

That I understood.

 

By eight, I was seated beside a woman named Irene, who wore silver-framed glasses and had the patience to explain the same process twice without making me feel stupid.

 

Obsidian House kept records for everything.

 

Food deliveries. Alcohol inventory. Staff schedules. Linen replacement. Guest requests. Private-room preparation. Security clearances. Magical supply purchases.

 

The scale made the Barlow household accounts look like a child’s arithmetic lesson.

 

Still, numbers behaved the same no matter how much money surrounded them.

 

By midmorning, Irene handed me a stack of invoices and asked me to sort them by department and date.

 

I finished before she returned.

 

Then I found that two liquor deliveries had been charged twice and one linen invoice listed a quantity that didn’t match the receiving record.

 

Irene stared at the screen. “How did you catch that?”

 

“The invoice total was too high for the number of cases,” I explained. “And the linen order used the same reference number as last week.”

 

She checked my work.

 

Everything matched.

 

“You’ve done this professionally?”

 

“No.”

 

Her eyebrows rose.

 

“I managed household accounts.”

 

“That must’ve been one hell of a household.”

 

I didn’t answer.

 

She must’ve sensed something in my silence because she didn’t ask again. Instead, she passed me another folder. “Let’s see what else you notice.”

 

By lunch, I had corrected three scheduling overlaps, found a missing supplier credit, and reorganized a section of the inventory sheet that had been slowing down reconciliation.

 

The work was unfamiliar.

 

The rules weren’t.

 

Numbers still told the truth when people didn’t. For the first time since leaving home, I felt useful for something no man had chosen for me. And for the first time in my life, I wondered what I might become if no one stopped me.

 

By the middle of the afternoon, I had started to understand the accounting department.

 

The rest of Obsidian House was another matter entirely.

 

Irene sent me downstairs with a corrected supply order and directions to guest services. The route took me through a corridor that opened onto one of the public lounges, and the moment I stepped through the doors, I almost turned around.

 

A woman in a red dress sat sideways across another woman’s lap, laughing while the second woman kissed her shoulder. Nearby, a man with silver horns leaned against the bar with one hand resting openly on the waist of another man.

 

No one stared.

 

No one whispered.

 

No one looked ashamed.

 

Heat rushed into my face so fast it hurt.

 

I dropped my gaze to the papers in my hands and walked more quickly than necessary.

 

At home, I had been taught that people like them were corrupted. That desire outside marriage was filth. That women who dressed openly invited judgment, and men who wanted other men had abandoned the order God created.

 

Here, they looked happy.

 

That unsettled me more than if they had looked wicked.

 

I nearly collided with a server wearing a black corset over a sheer blouse. The fabric revealed far more than anything I would have been allowed to own.

 

“Sorry,” I blurted, stepping back.

 

“No harm done.” She smiled at me.

 

I forced myself not to stare at the tattoo curling over her chest.

 

“You’re new.”

 

“Is it that obvious?”

 

“You look like you’re trying not to faint.”

 

My embarrassment deepened. “I’m fine.”

 

“Sure.”

 

She didn’t laugh.

 

That helped.

 

Her name tag read MARA. She glanced at the documents in my hand. “Guest services is through there.”

 

“Thank you.” I hesitated, then asked before I could stop myself. “Does no one care?”

 

“About what?”

 

I looked toward the women in the lounge.

 

Mara followed my gaze. “Oh.”

 

I expected her to be offended.

 

Instead, she leaned against the wall and lowered her voice. “Obsidian House doesn’t care who you want, what you wear, or what you enjoy. As long as everyone involved agrees.”

 

“Even if it’s wrong?” The words left my mouth before I could soften them.

 

Mara studied me for a moment. “Wrong to who?”

 

I had no answer.

 

She nodded toward a private corridor. “There are people upstairs with tastes that would probably make you run back to Utah.”

 

My stomach tightened.

 

“But no one gets to touch anyone without permission,” she continued. “Not for money. Not because they’re powerful. Not because they changed their mind after hearing no.”

 

Her tone had changed.

 

Sharper.

 

Certain.

 

I thought of Gideon deciding I would become his wife. Of Father deciding refusal was rebellion. Neither had ever asked what I wanted.

 

Mara straightened. “You don’t have to like anything here. You don’t even have to understand it. Just don’t shame people for choosing it.”

 

I looked down at the supply order. “I’m trying.”

 

“That’s more than most.” She pointed me toward guest services and moved on.

 

I stood there for another moment, listening to laughter from the lounge.

 

Everything about Obsidian House made me uncomfortable. But no one here had told me discomfort meant I had to surrender. That was new.

 

I made it back to accounting without getting lost.

 

That felt like an accomplishment.

 

Irene was reviewing a stack of supplier records when I returned. I handed her the corrected guest-services order, then stopped when I noticed another invoice open on her screen.

 

The total was wrong.

 

Not by much.

 

Enough.

 

“That charge is duplicated,” I said.

 

Irene looked up. “Which one?”

 

“The refrigeration maintenance f*e.”

 

She turned back to the screen. “It’s listed once.”

 

“On this invoice, yes.” I pointed to the reference number. “But the same code appears on the facilities bill from last week. Same amount. Same technician. Same service date.”

 

Irene pulled up the previous file. Her expression changed. “You’re right.”

 

She opened another window, then another.

 

The duplicate payment had already been approved.

 

“How much?” I asked.

 

“Thirty-two thousand.”

 

My eyes widened. “For refrigeration?”

 

“For several private floors.”

 

That raised more questions than it answered, but Irene was already gathering the documents.

 

“Come with me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you found it.”

 

I followed her through the executive corridor before I understood where we were going.

 

The office doors opened into a room larger than the entire first floor of my family’s house. Black stone, dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view of Las Vegas that made the city look like a field of fallen stars.

 

The man from the accounting corridor stood near the windows.

 

Something in me tightened.

 

He wore another black suit, perfectly fitted, his dark hair pushed back from his face. Up close, he seemed even larger than I remembered. Not only physically.

 

The room bent around him.

 

Irene placed the invoices on his desk. “Mr. Valerian, we caught a duplicate supplier charge before the payment cleared.”

 

Mr. Valerian.

 

The name struck me a second before the truth did. He wasn’t an executive. He was the owner.

 

I had criticized his employee map to his face.

 

Mr. Valerian turned his attention to me. His eyes were darker than I remembered. “You found it.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

“Yes.”

 

“How?”

 

“The reference number repeated.”

 

“Three trained accountants reviewed that invoice.”

 

I wasn’t sure what answer he wanted. “Their training didn’t change the number.”

 

Silence filled the room.

 

Irene’s eyes flicked toward me in warning.

 

Too blunt.

 

I knew it the moment the words left my mouth. But Mr. Valerian didn’t look offended. Not exactly.

 

He looked interested. “You believe they were careless?”

 

“I believe they expected the invoice to be correct.”

 

“And you didn’t?”

 

“I don’t expect numbers to be anything.”

 

His brow lifted slightly.

 

“They either match, or they don’t.”

 

Something shifted in his expression, almost amusement, almost irritation. “You speak plainly.”

 

“I was taught lying was a sin.”

 

The words escaped before I could stop them.

 

His gaze sharpened. “And yet you’re working in a house built on sin.”

 

Heat climbed into my face. “I didn’t mean…”

 

“I know what you meant.”

 

That made it worse.

 

I folded my hands in front of me so he wouldn’t see them tremble.

 

He helped me yesterday without asking for anything in return. He had listened when I pointed out the missing folder. And now I stood in his office, realizing he controlled the job, the room I slept in, and nearly everyone around me.

 

“Will there be anything else?” Irene asked.

 

Mr. Valerian never looked away from me. “No.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Keep her in reconciliation.”

 

Irene nodded.

 

I should’ve felt relieved. Instead, my pulse quickened as I followed her toward the door.

 

Just before I stepped into the hallway, his voice stopped me.

“Naomi.”

 

I turned.

 

He remembered my name.

 

“Don’t assume anything in this house is correct simply because someone powerful approved it.”

 

I held his gaze. “I won’t.”

 

For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.

 

Not quite a smile.

 

Somehow, that was worse.

Cyrus was waiting near the accounting office when my shift ended.

 

He looked exactly as polished as he had at the bus station, dark suit smooth, hair perfectly in place, expression warm enough to make me feel as though he had been expecting good news.

 

“I heard you had an eventful first day,” he said.

 

“I found a duplicate invoice.”

 

“A thirty-two-thousand-dollar duplicate invoice.”

 

Heat touched my cheeks. “I only noticed the reference number.”

 

“Most people wouldn’t have.” He gestured toward an empty office beside the corridor. “Do you have a moment?”

 

I followed him inside.

 

A folder waited on the desk.

 

Cyrus took the chair across from me and opened it to a short acknowledgment form.

 

“Management has noticed your potential,” he said. “We’d like to offer you additional training in high-level guest coordination.”

 

I looked down at the page. “What would that involve?”

 

“Scheduling, private requests, client preferences, executive correspondence. You’d still use the same administrative skills, only with more responsibility.”

 

“And the pay?”

 

“Higher. There are also performance bonuses.”

 

The word bonuses made me think of the contract I’d signed, but nothing in the new form seemed alarming. Training hours. Confidentiality. Department access. Temporary evaluation period.

 

No hidden charges.

 

No demands I didn’t understand.

 

“Why me?”

 

Cyrus smiled. “Because you pay attention.”

 

The answer landed somewhere deep.

 

All my life, attention had been useful only when it served Father’s household. Here, it might build something of my own.

 

I signed.

 

A knock came at the door before Cyrus could collect the page.

 

Another employee stepped inside and leaned close enough to whisper, but not quietly enough. “Mr. Valerian requested Naomi Barlow’s complete intake file.”

 

Cyrus’s expression changed, only for a second. Then the pleasant smile returned as he closed the folder.

 

“Well,” he said, turning toward me, “it appears you made quite an impression.”

 

My stomach tightened. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No.” He stood and adjusted his cuff. “Mr. Valerian would like to see you in his office.”