His wife, dripping in emeralds, nodded, her eyes raking Ivy’s outfit. No class, she said, her voice a stage whisper. She’s embarrassing the family just standing there.
A distant cousin, Trevor, in a velvet blazer, called out, Hey, sweetheart, kitchen’s that way. He pointed toward a side door, grinning as his friends clapped him on the back. A woman in pearls, Lillian, an aunt twice removed, clucked her tongue.
Really, someone should escort her out before the lawyer gets here. It’s disrespectful to Logan’s memory. Marissa, her crimson dress swishing with every step, crossed the room toward Ivy, her heels clicking like a countdown.
She stopped inches away, towering over Ivy’s smaller frame, her perfume sharp and suffocating. You’re in the wrong place, darling, she said, her voice loud enough to draw every eye. She reached out, flicking Ivy’s cardigan as if it were trash, her nails grazing the fabric with deliberate disdain.
This isn’t a soup kitchen. Why don’t you leave before you embarrass yourself further? The crowd watched, some smirking, others whispering, none stepping in. Ivy’s hand stayed steady on her bag, but the invasion of her space felt like a violation, Marissa’s closeness a calculated threat.
A cousin nearby muttered, she’s got some nerve staying, and the room’s approval of Marissa’s aggression was palpable, their silence complicit in Ivy’s humiliation. Ivy didn’t move, her eyes flicked briefly to the security camera in the corner, its red light blinking steadily. She knew it was live, feeding to a private server only two people could access.
One was her, the other… wasn’t here. Not yet. As Grayson prepared to read, Trevor slipped behind Ivy, his velvet blazer brushing the wall as he whispered to his friends, watch this.
He pulled a cocktail napkin from a nearby table, scribbled charity case and sharpie, and tucked it into the strap of Ivy’s bag when she wasn’t looking. The room noticed, snickers spreading like wildfire as people pointed at the note, its bold letters a brand on Ivy’s back. Clara snapped another photo, her laughter barely contained, while Elise whispered, she’s a walking joke now.
Ivy stood unaware, her focus on Grayson, but the crowd’s glee was electric, their amusement a knife twisted in her dignity. Trevor leaned back, grinning, as Lillian muttered, serves her right for showing up like that. The prank wasn’t just cruel, it was a spectacle, designed to make Ivy a fool for daring to exist among them.
The lawyer, Arthur Grayson, entered at precisely 10 a.m., his gray suit crisp, his briefcase heavy with secrets. He was older, 60-something, with a face carved by decades of handling fortunes and feuds. The room hushed as he set his briefcase on the table, opened it, and pulled out a single sealed envelope.
No flourish, no preamble. He adjusted his glasses and scanned the crowd, his gaze pausing on Ivy for a fraction of a second, long enough to unsettle Preston, who frowned and whispered to Marissa, what’s that about? Gerald Hayes stood, his pinstripe suit creasing as he pointed at Ivy, his voice booming like a judge delivering a verdict. This woman’s a fraud, he declared, his finger trembling with indignation.
Logan would never let someone like her near his estate, she’s here to scam us, plain and simple. The room buzzed with agreement, heads nodding, eyes narrowing at Ivy as if she were a thief caught red-handed. His wife, her emeralds glinting, added, she’s probably got a fake ID in that rag of a bag.
The accusation hung heavy, turning Ivy into a criminal in their minds, her presence an offense they couldn’t tolerate. Ivy’s gaze remained steady, but the weight of their judgment pressed down, each word a lash meant to strip her bare. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, their outrage a performance for each other, Ivy’s silence only fueling their need to tear her apart.
Grayson cleared his throat, we’re here to read the last will and testament of Logan Alexander Thorne, executed three years ago and verified as authentic. Murmurs rippled through the room, three years. Logan had vanished only six months ago, his private jet lost over the Pacific, no wreckage, no body, just a void that fueled headlines and greed.
Most assumed he’d died, most hoped. Preston straightened his tie, his smirk returning. Let’s get to it then, who gets the keys to the kingdom? Clara leaned forward, her manicured nails tapping her phone, already planning her victory post.
Gerald crossed his arms, muttering about stock options. Lillian clutched her pearls, whispering to Trevor about the summer house in Nice. Ivy stayed still, her bag now resting at her feet.
She watched Grayson’s hands as he broke the seal, the crack of wax loud in the quiet room. The crowd leaned in, their breathing shallow, their eyes hungry. This was it, the moment they’d dressed for, schemed for, flown across continents for.
Logan’s empire, tech patents, real estate, a biotech firm worth 90 billion was up for grabs, or so they thought. Grayson unfolded the paper, his voice steady but deliberate, each word a stone dropped into still water. I, Logan Alexander Thorne, being of sound mind, declare this my final will.
To my family, colleagues, and associates, I leave nothing but this truth. Wealth reveals character, not worth. The room froze.
Preston’s smile faltered. Clara’s phone slipped an inch in her hand. Gerald’s jaw tightened, his wife’s emerald suddenly heavy.
Nothing? It had to be a mistake. Grayson continued unfazed. All my assets, company shares, properties, accounts, and intellectual rights, are bequeathed to one person, the one who stood by me for no reason other than love, the one who never asked my net worth, never sought my name for status, my wife, Ivy.
A gasp tore through the room, sharp and jagged. Heads whipped around, searching for a face that matched the name. Preston barked a laugh, short and disbelieving.
Wife? Logan wasn’t married. Marissa’s hand flew to her mouth, her crimson nails stark against her paling skin. Clara’s eyes narrowed, darting to Elise, who mouthed, What the hell? Gerald stood his chair, scraping the floor.
This is absurd. Logan never mentioned a wife. It’s a scam.
Someone’s forged the damn thing. Lillian clutched Trevor’s arm, her voice shrill. She’s not here, is she? Some gold digger we’ve never met stealing what’s ours? Grayson held up a hand, silencing them.
The will is legal, signed and notarized. Supporting documents, marriage certificate, photographs, personal letters are available for verification. He reached into his briefcase, pulling out a folder.
He opened it, revealing a photograph. Logan, younger, laughing, his arm around Ivy in a simple white dress, standing outside a courthouse, the date on the back read seven years ago. The room erupted.
Preston slammed a fist on the table. This is insanity. Who is she? Clara stood, her phone forgotten, shouting, Where’s this Ivy? Show her.