The Davis estate was a monument to the art of the facade. From the outside, the limestone walls and manicured topiaries suggested a legacy of undisturbed wealth, a lineage of gold that stretched back centuries. But inside, the air felt thin, as if the very oxygen were being repossessed by the banks.
Juliet Davis swept into the Davis residence like a woman who had just conquered Paris, not merely shopped it. Her arms were laden with glossy black bags—Chanel, Hermès, Dior, Louis Vuitton—each one tied with silk ribbon that screamed quiet, obscene wealth.
Behind her trailed two maids, struggling under the weight of even more: shoe boxes stacked like modern art, garment bags whispering against silk linings, a single pale-blue Tiffany box cradled like a firstborn. The afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the entry hall, catching the gold hardware and turning the foyer into a private runway.
