Maya struck from her self-imposed exile the way she always had—not with her own hands, but through the manipulation of others. She no longer possessed the access, the liquid assets, or the physical proximity to the Grey estate to pose a direct threat. But what she still had in abundance was bitterness, and in the shark-infested waters of Geneva’s elite, bitterness had a way of finding willing hands and open ears.
The message arrived on a gray, translucent morning, slipping past the sophisticated digital filters Charles had installed because it wasn't a threat. It wasn't a ransom note or a grainy photograph of a schoolyard. It was a formal invitation, embossed on heavy cream cardstock that felt like a relic of a world they had tried to leave behind.
It was an invitation to a private donor
