The Gulfstream G650's cabin lights dimmed to simulate evening, though somewhere over the Atlantic the sun still blazed against bulletproof windows. Camille Ashford-Valentine sat in cream leather that cost more than most people's cars, her laptop balanced on a mahogany table that folded out with mechanical precision. The quarterly reports could wait. Her daughters demanded immediate attention.
The security feed loaded with crystalline clarity on her second monitor. Twelve different camera angles throughout Valentine Manor, each one a window into her children's lives that she watched from thirty thousand feet above the ocean. The technology was invasive, yes. Necessary? Absolutely.
Her finger hovered over the trackpad. The timestamp showed 11:47 PM. Past their bedtime, though she'd long ago given up enforcing such trivial rules. They were seventeen, not seven. Old enough to make their own mistakes and suffer the consequences.
