She was dismissed the moment she stepped into the will reading. A gray linen dress, a faded cardigan, and quiet flats, just enough to draw sneers across a room full of polished airs. Their grins too sharp to be sincere. A man in a gold tie was the first to speak, half laughing, half mocking. Is that the maid? A young woman tilted her head and whispered into her friend’s ear. Probably some sad ex-mistress looking for a payout.
Ivy Clark stood at the back of the room. She didn’t answer, didn’t flinch, just adjusted the strap of the cloth bag in her hand. Because to them she was just a shadow, an outsider who had wandered into a room meant for blood, legacy, and status.
But they were wrong, because the woman they just humiliated was the legal wife of the man they were all here to inherit from. And today’s reading of the will was a test she helped design. The thorn estate sprawled across a wooded hill, its stone walls and iron gates a fortress against the world.
Inside, the grand hall smelled of old money. Polished oak, leather, and the faint tang of roses from vases that cost more than most people’s rent. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, catching the April light and scattering it across a crowd of 42.
Relatives, investors, advisors, assistants, each one dressed to claim their stake in Logan Thorne’s empire. Tailored suits, silk dresses, diamonds that winked with every gesture. They milled about, sipping champagne, their condolences as rehearsed as their smiles.
Ivy slipped in quietly, her flat silent on the marble floor. She chose the back corner near a tall window that framed the misty hills outside. Her dress was simple, loose enough to move in, the gray fabric soft from years of wear.
Her cardigan, a pale blue that had seen better days, hung slightly off one shoulder. Her dark hair was pulled into a low bun, a few strands loose, framing a face that needed no makeup to hold its own. High cheekbones, hazel eyes that saw everything, and lips that stayed closed when others would have snapped back.
At 36, Ivy was beautiful in a way that didn’t shout, but lingered like a melody you couldn’t forget. The man in the gold tie, Preston Thorne, Logan’s second cousin, leaned against a mahogany table, his Rolex catching the light as he smirked. Seriously, who let the cleaning staff in? His voice carried, deliberate, drawing chuckles from a cluster of cousins nearby.
A woman in a crimson dress, Marissa, Preston’s sister, tossed her hair and added, Maybe she’s here to dust the will before it’s read. More laughter, sharp and brittle, like glass breaking. Across the room, a younger woman, Clara, a niece with a tech startup and a TikTok following, nudged her friend, Elise, a former assistant to Logan’s CFO.
Bet she’s one of his charity cases, Clara whispered, loud enough for Ivy to hear. Or a mistress he forgot about, look at her bag, like she’s carrying her lunch. Elise snickered, snapping a discreet photo with her phone.
This is going on my story, hashtag ThorneWillFlop. Clara’s fingers flew across her phone, her smirk growing as she typed a caption for the photo she’d just taken of Ivy. Found Logan’s charity case crashing the will reading.
Guess she thinks thrift store chic gets her a billion, she said aloud, ensuring Ivy heard every word. The crowd around her laughed, some pulling out their own phones to like and share the post, which was already gaining traction online. Comments flooded in, strangers calling Ivy a nobody and desperate, their words a digital pylon that echoed the room’s disdain.
Ivy stood motionless, her hazel eyes catching the glow of Clara’s screen, but she didn’t speak. Her silence seemed to fuel their glee, as if her composure was a challenge they had to break. Elise, Clara’s friend, leaned in, her voice dripping with pity.
Poor thing, doesn’t even know she’s a meme now, the laughter swelled. A chorus of cruelty that painted Ivy as less than human, her dignity a target for their amusement. Ivy’s fingers tightened briefly on her cloth bag, a plain thing stitched with care, not a logo in sight.
She didn’t look at Clara or Elise, didn’t acknowledge Preston’s taunt or Marissa’s barb. She stood still, her breathing even, her gaze fixed on the empty chair at the front where the lawyer would sit. To them, her silence was weakness, a sign she didn’t belong.
They couldn’t see the steel beneath it, the way her stillness held a room without trying. The crowd grew louder as more arrived. A former investor, Gerald Hayes, in a pinstripe suit, muttered to his wife, Logan always had strays hanging around, this one’s got no business here.