Being called into my father’s office never means good news. The last time it happened was when I got a week’s suspension from Eton for starting a prank war that culminated in three dozen rubber ducks and a flooded dorm.

I enter with trepidation. My father’s office would intimidate anyone. Two of the four walls are lined with bookcases filled with heavy tomes and journals. My father’s many degrees from Cambridge and Oxford are framed and displayed proudly. His desk is a huge oak beast with carved claw feet and inlaid with green leather. It looks like a president’s office—or an evil villain’s lair.

My father is facing the window when I enter. His arms are folded across his chest as he turns, and his expression is deeply disappointed. His eyebrows are knitted together in a stern frown, and his eyes grow dark when he sees me. “Henry.”

“Father.” The title of “Dad” has never suited the great Walter Southby.

My father takes a seat in the over-sized executive leather chair behind his desk and gestures for me to sit in one of the leather armchairs on the other side. As usual, a family conversation feels more like a business meeting.

He begins the conversation. “I told you that if you screwed up again, we’d be having a serious talk. It’s time for us to discuss what we’re going to with you, Henry.”

At twenty-seven years old, you’d think the time had passed for me having to face my father’s wrath, but as a Southby, reputation means everything. And reputation has no age limit.

I sit, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair, waiting for my father to tell me the consequences of my actions this time.

He clasps his hands together and stares sternly at me across the desk. “I’ve thought long and hard about the right thing to do. It’s clear that you don’t share your brother’s maturity. You’re reckless, selfish, and completely inconsiderate of the effect your actions have on the rest of this family. You find amusement in these acts of rebellion; you think you’re demonstrating your independence, yet we both know that without my continued support—financially and in reputation—you’d be nothing.”

My father stands once more and paces the office, his hands clasped behind his back. He says nothing for a while, pacing and breaking the silence with intermittent, heavy sighs.

When he turns back to look at me, his face is steeped in disappointment. “You’re an intelligent man, Henry. Without even needing to try, your grades always far exceeded. Yet you’ve scuppered all that potential—for no real reason I can see. A man with a background such as yours could achieve great things.”

He pauses. “That’s why I’m giving you one final chance to live up to your Southby name.” He stands in front of me with his arms folded across his chest. “An old friend of mine works at Harvard. He’s reviewed your grades, and you’ve been accepted to start an MBA there next term.”

I laugh. “America? Why?”

“You’ve made yourself a laughing stock here. Everyone who’s anyone is talking about how Henry Southby was in a fist fight at his brother’s wedding. All this after all the scandals we’ve already tried to smooth over for you? This family can’t handle any more cover-ups. You need to go somewhere where people don’t know you so that your bad reputation can die down. With any luck, you might even return a better man.”

“You want me to go to Harvard to complete an MBA? That’s it?”

My father takes a seat on the edge of his desk, only inches away from me. He leans forward intensely. “It’s a two-year course, and I’d expect you to achieve a 3.5 GPA.”

“And if I say no?”

He shrugs. “Then you’re out on your own. Cut off. I refuse to continue to support a son with no sense of personal accountability or responsibility. If all you want to do is party and cause trouble, then you can fund your own lifestyle. If you won’t study, then you will be evicted from that cozy little flat I’m paying for, and you’ll receive no more money from me.”

“And if I go?”

“If you go, and you achieve a 3.5 GPA and cause no other scandals, you can return to England, and I will continue to fund your lifestyle as I do now.

“I will, of course, pay for your tuition and other expenses. I will pay for the first year of your studies up front, pay for a private flat for you to stay in, and give you an allowance to last the year. While you’re away, I want you to learn how to take responsibility for yourself. You’ll have to budget with the money I give you and work hard.”

He meets my eye. “I know you’re more than capable of getting a degree from Harvard, Henry. You flew through your undergraduate at Cambridge. All I ask is that you keep your head down and avoid making trouble. I had to pull in a favor to get you enrolled last-minute. Don’t let me down.”

“Hold on,” I say, holding up hands. “You expect me to give up two years of my life simply because you demand it?”

“It’s not a demand, Henry. It’s a lifeline. You don’t deserve another chance—you’ve already had so many. But I’m willing to do this for you because I’d rather see my son make something of himself than throw all his potential away. I’m hoping that this opportunity might be the making of you.”

I sit back with my arms folded over my chest and think about his proposition. I can either take offense at another attempt to control me and leave myself homeless and broke, or I can spend the next two years in America, where I might finally be able to live my life without my father looking over my shoulder.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

My father nods but doesn’t smile. “I’m glad. I really want the best for you, son. Take this opportunity I’m giving you and make the most of it—not only for me but for yourself. I believe you could really be somebody if you’d only apply yourself. I will arrange everything. You leave in three weeks.”