The mansion pulsed with the kind of amber, champagne-soaked light that only generational wealth can afford.

Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen stalactites from the frescoed ceilings, casting fractured rainbows over a crowd of people who laughed a decibel too loud.

They were the city’s elite, swathed in silk and hubris, with enough capital to firmly believe that scandal and shame were afflictions reserved solely for the lower tax brackets.

And there she was. Elena Moretti.

She was holding court near a towering marble fireplace, poured into a pale gold gown that caught the firelight.

Her slender hand was draped possessively over the forearm of my husband, Daniel.