The boy looked around, wide-eyed, looking for the bathroom. The butler thought the child was playing the fool, then sighed sadly and opened the bathroom door.
Richie walked into the bathroom and paused for a moment. He'd never seen such a luxurious bathroom, even though the body of a boy was filled with a grown man who'd seen a lot. The room was larger than a standard apartment kitchen. It had white marble floors, marble sinks, a shower stall, a Jacuzzi, and a toilet with a bidet next to it.
"I'm trapped!" he thought. "Have I really become a classic transmigrator, like in the books?! Or is this heaven? I remember the truck hurtling straight at me at incredible speed. No one survives that. But I'm alive, even though the body isn't mine. I even speak fluent English, even though I only studied it half-heartedly at school and barely knew it... I wonder where the owner of this body went and how I ended up here?"
John's stern gaze did not allow the boy to think too much; he had to wash and change his clothes.
The hallway stunned Richie. It was so wide that he could have driven a car through it if he'd wanted. The house itself was more like a palace, indecently large, with high ceilings and luxurious furnishings. Paintings hung on the walls, and marble statues and suits of steel armor clung to niches.
After descending the marble staircase, Richie and John reached the gym, which was filled with a variety of exercise machines and equipment. The gym was divided into two sections: on the left side were the equipment and machines, and on the right was a spacious, open aerobics area with a mirrored wall.
Waiting inside was a gorgeous, athletic blonde in a tight aerobics outfit: black leggings, a white one-piece swimsuit, and matching sneakers.
The blonde smiled broadly and politely addressed the boy:
"Good morning, Mr. Rich. Would you mind if I take Arnold's place today? My name is Cloudy."
The boy took in the figure of the female trainer with a decidedly unchildlike gaze. He practically drooled at the sight of her breasts, clad in thin fabric and sized at a glance like a solid C-cup.
"Good morning, Cloudy," Richie replied. "Of course, I'd be happy to practice."
The boy hadn't yet gotten used to the idea of his time in space, but he decided not to advertise it. He didn't know how it had happened that after death, instead of heaven or hell, he'd managed to wake up as an eight-year-old boy. But since fate had given him the chance to live his life anew, and in a wealthy family at that, it would be foolish not to take advantage of it.
The workout was a typical aerobics session. The butler took off his jacket and worked out with the young gentleman. But the trainer made a serious mistake, perhaps due to her youth and lack of experience, or perhaps out of devious motives: she performed the exercises with her back to the boy and the man. As a result, most of the workout consisted of John and Richie staring at Cloudy's toned butt.
The valet and the boy turned to each other, understanding smiles spreading across both their faces, after which the boy and the man's gaze returned to the lovely hemispheres.
Richie still didn't understand what was happening, but he definitely liked the hit. He thought it was his piano. No-a grand piano! After all, every transmigrator should have his own piano in the bushes. And he considered his piano a huge pile of money.
After completing the training, John escorted his trainee to his room.
- Mr. Richie, you should change for breakfast and for school.
Richie's face twisted as if he had eaten a whole lemon.
"School-huh? Again?!" he almost howled. "No-o-o-o! No-no-no! I don't want to go to school again!"
"Sir, whether you like it or not, you have to," the butler said dryly, entering the dressing room. He emerged with a suit hanging on a hanger. "First, a shower, then breakfast, and then school," he stated. "In the meantime, I'll pick out a shirt and tie for you. What color would you like today, sir? Red with spots or classic black?"
"Definitely not with Donald Duck," Richie replied ironically. "Um... John, tell me, how much longer do I have to go to school?"
The valet began bending his fingers and quietly muttering under his breath:
- One-junior school. Five years, plus a couple more years at Eton, unless you pass the external exams, as you did for the first two years. Or after junior school, you'll go to Ellesmere Boarding School in Shropshire. Hmm... Sir, you'll have another eight years of schooling ahead of you. Of course, after that, you could go to college and become the first Duke of Rich with a university degree. That's another four or five years.
"Well, I could still go to college," the boy said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with his right hand. "There are young juicy nymphs there who are eager for adventures on their backsides..."
"Oh, how quickly children grow," the valet rolled his eyes. "Mr. Richie, you're only eight years old, and you're already interested in girls. I'm proud of you. But be careful, there will always be those who hunt for a rich man."
"I hate school!" Richie muttered and trudged to the bathroom.
As he walked, the boy pondered the problems of transmigrators. They mostly had adventures, from which they always emerged unscathed. But instead of adventures, he was facing a second stint at school.
After the shower, the boy dressed up in an expensive suit, clearly custom-made, which fit his figure perfectly.
Children grow up so fast, it was hard for Richie to imagine how often he had to sew clothes. He figured the price of a black three-piece suit with gray trim was obscenely high. For that kind of money, he could probably buy a used car in good condition in a third-world country. And if he sold his platinum cufflinks with black diamonds, he could even buy a new one.
The valet helped the boy comb his hair back and styled it with hairspray. The boy looked like a sleek little brat.