Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Marble FloorThe air inside Aurelia & Co. always carried the sterile scent of expensive eucalyptus and old money. For Kaima, the polished white marble floor was a daily battlefield. Every step she took in her scuffed, budget-friendly flats felt like an invitation for scrutiny. While Blessing and the senior sales associates glided across the showroom in designer heels, Kaima moved like a ghost—unseen, overworked, and perpetually underpaid.
Kaima had taken the job out of absolute desperation. Her younger brother needed specialized physical therapy following a horrific construction site accident, and the local clinic required a hefty upfront retainer every month. The luxury store paid a modest base wage with commission potential—potential that Blessing ensured Kaima never actually realized.
Yet, Kaima possessed an emotional armor forged through years of hardship. She had learned early in life that pride was a luxury for people who didn't have rent due on the first of the month. When Blessing smirked, handing her a stack of invoices instead of commission sheets, Kaima simply took them. When the other girls whispered about her faded cardigans behind the display counters, Kaima kept her head down and polished the glass cases until she could see her own tired reflection staring back.
The afternoon sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling glass storefront when the heavy brass-trimmed doors pushed open, bringing with them a sudden, sharp draft from the bustling city street outside.
The woman who stepped in did not belong.
In a showroom where even the casual window shoppers wore tailored wool coats and carried designer leather bags, this woman was an anomaly. She wore a faded, sun-washed Ankara wrapper that had seen years of washing, a pair of worn plastic slippers that slapped softly against the immaculate marble, and a simple cotton scarf tied loosely over her silver-streaked hair. Her hands were calloused, bearing the unmistakable marks of a lifetime of hard manual labor, and a faint streak of dried dust coated the hem of her garment.
Instantly, the ambient chatter of the showroom died down.
Blessing dropped a stack of inventory clipboards onto a glass counter with an aggressive clatter. Her face twisted into an expression of theatrical disgust. Without waiting for the security guards to notice, Blessing marched across the floor, her sharp heels clicking a rhythmic warning.
That was the moment the old woman had spoken softly, her voice carrying a calm, unbothered dignity that contrasted sharply with the hostility of the room.
— I only want to look around.
Blessing had scoffed, crossing her arms over her sequined blouse.
— Madam, this is not a market. This is a luxury jewelry store. We serve high-class clients here, not beggars.
May you like
Kaima stood frozen three paces behind Blessing, clutching a tray of velvet ring inserts. She watched the old woman’s face. There was no flash of anger, no sudden humiliation. Instead, a quiet, knowing sadness passed through the woman’s eyes—a look that suggested she had seen the absolute worst of human nature and was entirely uncurved by it.
Kaima’s chest tightened. She remembered what it felt like to be judged by the cover of a book, to be written off before she even opened her mouth. Without thinking about the consequences—without calculating how much Blessing would dock from her pay or what cruel remark would follow—Kaima stepped forward.
