Tris.
There was something to be said about a girl who'd been through twenty different foster homes in four years, not even including the shuffling her own family had done before she'd entered the system. An unwanted child, and unlovable child. A bookworm, social retardation, a psychological mess with plenty of abandonment issues. Rumored to be schizophrenic, on medication for hearing voices...
Trisana Chandler scowled into her textbook as her history teacher droned on about the Renaissance, hunching her shoulders against the snickers and snide remarks of the rest of her peers. Despite it's shining reputation as a boarding school of culture, Tris had found that Cercle Brisé was no better than any public or private school she'd ever attended. The students were nice enough... until the rumors about her started to spread about her being a foster kid and how she had been removed from her family because she killed her mother, or because she was on drugs.
She pushed her glasses higher on her nose, adding an extra twist to her scowl as a giggling cheerleader and her posse of drooling football players walked by. One accidently knocked her books to the ground, sending her homework and papers flying everywhere, to be tread on gleefully by the people passing through the hall. Ignoring the laughter of her classmates, Tris sagged back against a slate grey locker, waiting for the hallway to empty before she attempted to retrieve anything. Knowing them, they'd shove her over and make her late anyway; why not be late on her own terms, for once?
"Trisana Chandler?"
Tris blinked, looking up from her ripped Calculus homework at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. "Yeah?"
A tall, pale man stood in the middle of the hallway, decked out in what looked like an extremely expensive Armani suit. His hair and beard were impeccable and he looked like he wouldn't be out of place in one of her father's boardrooms. He also didn't have a visitors pass.
"Stay back." Tris warned, narrowing her eyes. "I have mace."
The man chuckled, raising his hands. "Heavens, girl." he had a distinct Oxford accent. "I'm not here to abduct you- well, abduct you illegally." He fished around in his pocket before producing a card, which he handed to a still suspicious Tris.
"Mr. Niklaren Goldeye of Goldeye Law Firm." Tris read aloud. "My father's lawyer." She snorted, dropping the card on the floor dismissively. "Did he finally write me out of the will? Am I officially a ward of the state?"
"Well, not exactly." Mr. Goldeye smiled. "Your father didn't quite think through his contract with us- he paid for us to represent his family for life. A foolish display of wealth, in my opinion, because it allowed my firm to become your social lawyers, in a way."
"Meaning..." Tris lead on, not quite liking where this was leading.
"Pack your bags, Ms. Chandler, we are going on, as they say, a road trip."
Can't you totally imagine Niko as some big shot lawyer? I saw him in an Armani suit with a british accent and couldn't help myself.