Surely Maman had not meant to betray his father. Surely she was just misguided. She had maintained her mourning, shown him the proper respect. And that story of a lover, well. That was Grandmother’s story. Tom didn’t know his mother’s side of it. Perhaps he had been wrong in not waiting to find out.

Yes, as the car slowed to a crawl in the party traffic, Tom made up his mind. Maman was just misguided. They could be reconciled. Anyway—maybe she was doing a little better at House Massot than he’d given her credit for.

Tom didn’t believe Sophie had had a total personality transplant. She would still have respected Papa. Mistakes could be forgiven.

Tom’s mood lifted. Perhaps tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Judy’s taxi had stopped moving. She resisted the temptation to bark at the driver. That was Paris traffic; you had to be Zen about it, or say goodbye to your blood pressure. She didn’t want to arrive flustered, either; this party was important, and Judy wanted to appear at her best.

Judy had handpicked the press for the evening, and she was to be there, to see that they reported it for what it was: a disgraceful waste of shareholders’ money.

Judy would paint a vivid picture: extravagance, selfishness, recklessness. Little old ladies with their pension funds ruined by Massot’s plunging share price. Far from reversing that course, she was sure tonight would confirm it. The opulence of the details Judy had seen took her breath away.

She would not even need to do much planting. The spending would speak for itself.

The taxi was moving again. Judy snuggled into her pashmina; she was warm, but her hatred was cold inside her, hard as any jewel.

She wore a contemporary dress. There would be plenty of ball gowns there tonight; Louis XIV opulence, nothing Judy could compete with. She had gone carefully for contrast, instead. Judy was no stuffy dowager in diamonds. She would shine as what she was: modern, fresh, American. The anti-Sophie, perhaps.

Her outfit was a one-piece in scarlet; it was silk, embroidered with tens of thousands of sequins, heavy, made to fit her perfectly, in the atelier; it was long and had a fish tail and a fitted bodice, a tank-style neckline that showed off her graceful arms and strong, polished shoulders. Judy had spent ten thousand euros on the dress. She did not regret one cent.

She carried no jewels, of course; the dress was all glitter and required none. And Judy did not choose to compete in that area. One day—when she could out-dazzle the lot of them. Not tonight. She was absolutely bare of ornamentation. Even her earlobes were free of studs.