The grand salon of the Estate in Freenly City was a monument to old-money decadence, architectural dominance, and generational power. High vaulted ceilings, covered in intricate plasterwork and trimmed with pure gold leaf, loomed over an expanse of polished white Carrara marble that reflected the dim, warm light of a massive Baccarat crystal chandelier.
Sitting upon a sprawling, velvet-upholstered chaise lounge in the center of this cavernous space was Geney Ford.
She was a woman who had spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of high society with the precision of a military general. Even in her private residence, her posture was flawless, her spine a rigid line of aristocratic pride. She wore a tailored crimson silk house-dress that draped elegantly over her shoulders, her fingers—adorned with multi-carat diamond rings—wrapped around the delicate handle of a porcelain teacup.
Sitting directly across from her, perched on a matching silk armchair, was Gloria.
