The silence that blanketed the Lake Geneva estate wasn’t just quiet; it was heavy, suffocating, and absolute. The string quartet’s violins screeched to an awkward, halting stop as the musicians themselves turned to stare. Hundreds of Chicago’s most powerful elites—people who made their living controling rooms and commanding markets—sat frozen, their champagne flutes suspended mid-air.
I kept my chin high, my posture immaculate. The emerald silk of my gown swept smoothly against the manicured lawn as I took a step forward. Beside me, my three sons didn’t flinch. I had spent the last week preparing them, transforming what could have been a terrifying ordeal into a grand game.
“Remember, boys,” I had whispered to them in the limousine, adjusting their miniature silk bowties. “We walk together. We stay polite. And we never, ever look down.”
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