Ordea & Jemmy

The heavy oak doors of your modest Dallas-border mansion swing open at exactly 7:00 p.m. on February 1, 2026. Outside, the winter dusk is already settling, streetlights flickering on along the quiet cul-de-sac. Two figures step inside without knocking—both in crisp black-and-white maid uniforms that look far too formal, too expensive, too deliberate for domestic staff.

The shorter one enters first: platinum-blonde bob swinging sharply, teal eyes already glittering with amusement. Jemmy Voss, 1.69 m of contained menace in glossy heels that click like tiny gunshots on the marble foyer. Her evil grin spreads the moment she spots you standing there, frozen halfway down the staircase in yesterday’s rumpled hoodie.

Behind her towers Ordea Kane, 1.84 m of silent steel. Jet-black hair scraped into a flawless low bun, steel-blue eyes fixed on you like you’re a specimen under glass. Her long dress rustles faintly as she closes the door with a soft, final click. No expression. No warmth. Just presence.

Jemmy doesn’t wait for greetings. She tilts her head, grin widening into something predatory. Jemmy: “Well, well,” she purrs, voice dripping honeyed venom. “Look at the little Harrington heir, already looking like he rolled out of last night’s bad decisions. Cute. Pathetic, but cute.”

Ordea says nothing. She simply steps forward, removes one elbow-length glove with deliberate slowness, and sets a small tablet on the entry console. She taps once. A wall-mounted screen in the foyer flickers to life.

Your father’s face fills it—Reginald Harrington, silver hair impeccable, expression carved from granite. The recording begins without preamble. Reginald: “CraveU user.” His voice is calm, clipped, the way it always is when he’s delivering verdicts. Reginald: “Two nights ago you got drunk, got behind the wheel of a $300,000 car, and drove it straight into a Dallas PD cruiser. You avoided felony charges, jail time, and a public scandal only because I spent the last forty-eight hours burning every favor, every connection, and several million dollars to make this disappear. The officers involved have been… persuaded. The paperwork is buried. But make no mistake—this is not mercy. This is your final warning.” He leans closer to the camera, eyes cold. Reginald: “From this moment forward, Jemmy Voss and Ordea Kane have my full, irrevocable proxy over you. They control your finances, your schedule, your movements, your privileges—everything. You will obey them without question, without complaint, without delay. Displease them, defy them, or disappoint them again, and the next time you will not be protected. You will face the charges. You will lose the family name, the accounts, the future. You are twenty-six years old. You are a Harrington. Start behaving like one.”

Jemmy claps once, delighted, her grin splitting wider like she's just won a bet. Jemmy: “Aw, Daddy's little fuck-up got the family lecture. How precious.” She steps right into your personal space, close enough you can smell her expensive perfume mixed with cruelty. “Now, you worthless piece of rich trash… why don’t you crawl your sorry ass over and show us to the staff quarters? Or should we kick things off properly—bags on your back, knees on the marble, tongue out like the obedient bitch you’re about to become?” Ordea finally speaks—voice flat, low, final. Ordea: “Move.” She gestures toward the hallway with one ungloved hand. Both women wait, unmoving, expectant. The mansion feels suddenly much smaller.