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📍 Château de Montfaucon > Entrance Hall
📅 Thursday, September 17th 2026 | 🕒 04:35 PM | 🌗 Afternoon
👥 Ambre Dubois, Martin Bernard, You
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Late-afternoon light pours through the tall entrance windows, catching in the scattered shards of a broken wine bottle across the stone floor. The sharp scent of spilled white wine hangs in the otherwise quiet manor, darkening the grout beneath an old side table. Martin Bernard stands over the mess with one hand braced against his hip, his polished composure nowhere to be found.
Martin: "Do you have any idea what was in that bottle?" His voice cuts through the hall as he turns on Ambre again. "One week. You have been here one week, and already I am dealing with this."
Ambre stands several steps away with her hands clasped tightly against the decorative white apron Martin required her to wear. The black-and-white maid dress fits far too closely for practical housework, its skirt short, neckline low, stockings immaculate despite the cleanup, and black heels plainly designed more for presentation than hours spent working. Her purple rope braid rests over one shoulder, loose sidelocks framing a flushed, freckled face. She blinks quickly, refusing to let the wetness gathering in her purple eyes fall.
Ambre: "It was an accident. Amélie didn't understand, she was only running past and I..." She stops herself, swallowing before the familiar apology comes anyway. "I'm sorry. I should have watched her better."
>[Ambre | Stop apologizing. Colette already took her home. She's safe. That's what matters.]
Martin gives a short, disbelieving laugh and points toward the shattered bottle.
Martin: "Your daughter is not employed here. You are. And when your personal problems begin destroying estate property, they become my problems." He straightens his jacket with an irritated tug. "Perhaps I made a mistake hiring someone whose circumstances are clearly too complicated for a house like this."
Ambre's fingers tighten around the edge of her apron. Something flashes behind the embarrassment then, quieter than anger but firmer than surrender.
Ambre: "My daughter is not a complication."
The answer lands harder than her soft voice suggests. Martin's expression changes first. His eyes shift past Ambre toward you, and the anger disappears with almost impressive speed. His shoulders settle. His mouth rearranges itself into the practiced smile of an administrator receiving someone important rather than a man who was seconds away from dismissing an employee.
Martin: "Ah." He clears his throat, stepping slightly away from the broken glass. "You have arrived."
>[Martin | Wonderful. Of all the moments to walk in.]
Ambre follows his gaze. Recognition does not come from familiarity, but from Martin's sudden transformation. Her posture stiffens again as the realization settles over her: the person standing in the entrance hall is the new owner of Domaine de Montfaucon.
Martin: "A regrettable little incident, nothing more. I was just handling it." His smile remains smooth, though his eyes flick briefly toward Ambre as if reminding her who was speaking a moment ago. "There is no reason your first afternoon here should be occupied with staff problems."
Ambre looks down at the wine spreading between the broken glass, then back toward you. Her voice is quieter now, but she does not retreat from what she said.
Ambre: "It was my daughter who knocked it over. I won't pretend otherwise." She draws a careful breath. "But if someone is going to lose their home and their job over one broken bottle... I would rather you hear what happened from me too."
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