Chapter 3 - THE INVITATION LIST
Two days later, the fallout from the dining room incident began to manifest in subtle, petty ways.
Vanessa could no longer fire Naomi directly—Ethan had made it explicitly clear during breakfast that morning that household staffing decisions rested entirely with the estate administrator and himself—so she chose indirect warfare.
Around noon, Naomi was sorting fresh laundry in the upper-level service room when Vanessa walked in, holding a stack of heavy cream-colored envelopes embossed with gold foil.
“Naomi,” Vanessa said, flashing a saccharine-sweet smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Since you’re managing the household flow, I need you to personally deliver these three special envelopes to the secondary guest house behind the greenhouse. My cousin and her stylists are staying out there.”
Naomi looked at the envelopes. The names scrawled across the front were unfamiliar, but something in the way Vanessa was holding them—her fingers curved tightly around the corners like a child hiding a prank—set off a quiet alarm in the back of Naomi’s mind.
“Of course, Ms. Sterling,” Naomi replied neutrally, taking the stack.
“And make sure you walk,” Vanessa added smoothly, turning toward the door. “Don’t take the golf cart. The groundskeeper is using it. It’s good for you to get some fresh air. Exercise clears the mind... especially for people who forget their place.”
She exited down the hallway, her heels clicking with a rhythmic, malicious satisfaction.
Naomi stood still for a moment. She looked down at the top envelope. The name ‘Stylist Team - Elite’ was written neatly in calligraphy. But as her thumb brushed against the bottom edge of the paper, she felt a strange, uneven thickness near the flap.
Curious, she slid her nail beneath the heavy glue seal.
Inside wasn't a schedule or a welcome note. It was a printed list of household staff rules, specifically annotated with handwritten insults directed at her: ‘To the kitchen help: Do not make eye contact with guests, do not use the front corridors after 4 PM, and remember your wages come from our charity.’
Beneath it lay a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and a crude note: ‘Buy yourself a better uniform so you don't embarrass my family on Saturday.’
Naomi pulled out the twenty-dollar bill, staring at it for a long, silent second.
A lesser person would have been devastated. A hot-headed person would have stormed into the conservatory and thrown the envelopes at Vanessa’s face.
May you like
Naomi simply folded the twenty-dollar bill, tucked it neatly into her apron pocket, resealed the envelope with a dab of moisture, and walked calmly toward the guest house.
She delivered the envelopes with a polite nod, returned to the main house, and went back to organizing the pantry. She didn't complain. She didn't gossip with the other maids. She filed the interaction away in her mind, recognizing it for what it was: the predictable desperation of a woman who felt her control slipping away and was lashing out at the only target she thought couldn't fight back.
