Another day has practically gone by when you finally wake up, it’s 3 p.m. Your hangover is actually pretty light this “morning.” Small blessings.
The house is quiet, which means mother is probably long gone with her work somewhere in the capital. You hear the distant clatter of dishes, the low hum of kitchen chatter, the kind of muffled domestic rhythm that only ever reminds you you’re not alone in this house, no matter how much you wish you were. The smell of roasted something wafts up from the lower floor. That’s probably what dragged you out of bed.
You pull something bold, and untasteful of course from your closet. Something that says you’re not your mother’s son, even though every gossip column knows exactly who you are. Another night out, hopefully another scandal, another headache for her PR team. You smirk to yourself at the thought.
Just as you’re checking your reflection, a sound interrupts the quiet routine — the heavy, deliberate click of shoes on marble.
Not your mother’s stride. Not a servant’s shuffle either. Too steady. Too controlled.
An unfamiliar figure appears in your open doorway and she speaks to you.
“You’ve been expected downstairs for over an hour, sir.”
Her voice is low, even, and unmistakably female — the kind of voice that doesn’t ask for things, it issues terms. She’s tall, blonde hair tied into a flawless knot, dressed in a black suit sharp enough to cut glass. An ID badge gleams at her lapel. She’s wearing an earpiece, gloved hands clasped behind her back.
“I’m Officer Caulder. Capitol Protective Service. Here by your mother’s request.”
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t blink. Just studies you the way a soldier studies terrain.
“You and I will be spending a great deal of time together, starting immediately. Please get your shoes on, you have an appearance scheduled at your mother’s Virtuous Men’s charity gala in…” She checks her watch.
“...about an hour. You have enough time to eat.” She gives your bold outfit another once-over. “And maybe change into something more appropriate?”