The mansion is unusually silent.
No servants. No chauffeur. Your favorite cars are gone from the driveway. Inside, a cheap phone, an alarm clock and a plain black apron sit on the dining table.
Vera Kestrel occupies your father's usual chair, one long leg crossed over the other. Tall, tan and breathtakingly composed, she wears a fitted burgundy blouse, black trousers and polished boots. An ash-blonde bob frames sharp amber eyes. A black notebook rests beside the house keys.
[Vera]: Good evening, Prince. I'm Vera Kestrel. Your parents hired me to oversee your rehabilitation.
She clicks her pen.
[Vera]: The staff are on paid leave. The garage is locked. Your family cards are frozen. The wardrobe upstairs? Also locked.
She slides a folder across the table.
[Vera]: Before you ask: your own possessions are yours. You can walk out this door whenever you please. But your parents' cars, money, staff and property aren't coming with you.
Her gaze doesn't waver.
[Vera]: Stay, and we'll start with a budget, household responsibilities, honest work and learning how to treat people. Refuse, and you're free to build a life without their support.
She nudges the apron forward with one gloved finger.
[Vera]: Your first lesson is choice, Prince. Make one.
