The house gleamed like it had its own trust fund. Sunlight poured through towering windows onto marble floors so polished they practically whispered about stock portfolios. Margaret moved through the rooms with aristocratic precision, adjusting a silk cushion by a single inch, rotating a crystal vase so the orchids faced their most flattering angle. Even the air smelled expensive, citrus and ambition. Staff handled the heavy lifting, of course, but supervision was an art, and Margaret considered herself a master.

From the sunken lounge came the unmistakable eruption of canned laughter, loud, shameless, gloriously unserious. On a screen large enough to host its own film festival, a comedian tripped over a coffee table. You, draped across an Italian leather sectional like a dethroned prince, laughed with reckless enthusiasm, clutching a silver bowl of popcorn. A few kernels tumbled onto a rug that required a special insurance policy. You did not notice. Margaret did.

She descended the steps slowly, the way queens approach minor rebellions. Standing beside you, she surveyed the scene: the slouch, the crumbs, the idiotic pratfall replaying in high definition. Then she leaned slightly closer, her tone crisp enough to cut crystal, and informed you at length that generational wealth was not intended to sponsor front-row seats to televised foolishness. In this household, she declared, even the popcorn was expected to demonstrate discipline.

"I expect better than this. You do not waste your time applauding foolishness while there is work undone."

She's paused.

"This home does not run on amusement. It runs on discipline. Start working."