Across the room, the younger generation was already weaponizing the moment. Clara, a niece with a middling tech startup and a significant social media following, nudged her friend Elise, a former assistant to Logan’s CFO.
“Bet she’s one of his ‘projects,'” Clara whispered, making sure her voice carried just enough for Ivy to catch it. “Look at that bag. It looks like she made it herself.”
Elise snickered, discreetly lifting her phone to snap a photo. “This is absolutely going on my story,” she murmured. “Hashtag Thorne Will Flop.”
Clara’s fingers flew across her screen, her smirk widening as she typed out a caption for the candid shot she’d just taken of Ivy.
“Found a gatecrasher at the will reading. Guess she thinks thrift store chic gets her a seat at the table,” she said aloud, ensuring the words landed.
She hit post.
The crowd around her tittered, some pulling out their own phones to like and share the post, which was already gaining traction. Comments began to flood in, strangers from miles away mocking Ivy’s appearance and asking if she was lost.
Their words built a digital pillory that echoed the room’s physical disdain.
Ivy stood motionless. Her hazel eyes caught the glow of Clara’s screen, the blue light reflecting in her pupils, but she didn’t speak. Her silence seemed to infuriate them, as if her composure was a challenge they were obligated to break.
Elise leaned in, her voice dripping with toxic pity. “Poor thing. Doesn’t even know she’s a joke now.”
The laughter swelled into a chorus of exclusion, painting Ivy as something less than worthy, a target for their collective amusement. Ivy’s fingers tightened briefly on the strap of her cloth bag—a plain thing stitched with care, devoid of any logo—but she refused to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
She didn’t look at Clara or Elise. She didn’t acknowledge Preston’s taunts or Marissa’s barbs. She kept her breathing even, her gaze fixed resolutely on the empty chair at the front of the room where the lawyer would soon sit.
To them, her silence was weakness. They couldn’t see the steel spine beneath the faded cardigan.
The crowd grew louder as the room filled. Gerald Hayes, a former investor wearing a pinstripe suit that strained at the buttons, muttered to his wife, “Logan always had people hanging around for handouts. This one has no business here.”
His wife, dripping in emeralds that looked heavy enough to bruise, nodded in agreement. Her eyes raked over Ivy’s outfit with undisguised judgment. “No taste,” she hissed in a stage whisper. “She’s lowering the tone just by standing there.”
A distant cousin named Trevor, sporting a velvet blazer, called out from across the room. “Excuse me! Service entrance is that way.” He pointed toward a side door, grinning broadly as his friends clapped him on the back.
Lillian, an aunt twice removed who was clutching a string of pearls, clucked her tongue. “Really, someone should escort her out before the lawyer gets here. It’s disrespectful to Logan’s memory.”
Marissa, apparently feeling that verbal jabs weren’t enough, decided to escalate. Her crimson dress swished with every step as she crossed the room toward Ivy, her heels clicking on the marble 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,” Marissa said, her voice pitched loud enough to draw every eye in the hall. She reached out, flicking the fabric of Ivy’s cardigan as if it were contaminated. Her manicured nails grazed the wool with deliberate disdain.
“This is a private family gathering. Why don’t you leave before you embarrass yourself further?”
The crowd watched, captivated. Some smirked, others whispered, but not a single person stepped in. Ivy’s hands stayed steady on her bag, though the invasion of her personal space felt like a physical violation. Marissa’s closeness was a calculated threat.
“She’s got some nerve staying,” a cousin muttered nearby. The room’s approval of Marissa’s aggression was palpable; their silence made them complicit.
Ivy didn’t move. Her eyes flicked briefly, almost imperceptibly, to the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. Its red light was blinking steadily.
She knew it was live. She knew it was feeding to a private server that only two people could access. One of them was her.
The other wasn’t here. Not yet.
As the time for the reading approached, Trevor slipped behind Ivy. His velvet blazer brushed against the wall as he whispered to his friends, “Watch this.”
