The party was, by every objective measure, a masterpiece of social engineering. That was the first thing Victoria would remember later—the agonizing perfection of it all. It was a scene designed to project the image of a family that had survived the storm and emerged untouchable.
The Grey estate garden was dressed in layers of soft, ethereal lights and crisp white linen. The late-summer air was thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and the expensive perfume of Geneva’s elite. A string quartet played somewhere near the hedges, the music mingling with the rhythmic splash of the marble fountain.
Children’s laughter echoed across the lawn. Their son, glowing with the effortless joy of a child who believes his world is safe, ran between the clusters of guests. His small hand slipped in and
