He pulled a cocktail napkin from a nearby table and a marker from his pocket. Scrawling the word SERVICE in bold, black letters, he quietly tucked the napkin into the strap of Ivy’s bag while her back was turned.
The room noticed immediately. Snickers spread like wildfire. People pointed at the note, the bold letters acting as a brand on Ivy’s back.
Clara snapped another photo, her laughter barely contained, while Elise whispered, “Finally, a label that fits.”
Ivy stood unaware of the sign attached to her, her focus remaining on the front of the room. The crowd’s glee was electric, their amusement a knife twisting in her dignity. Trevor leaned back against the wall, grinning, as Lillian muttered, “About time someone told her.”
The prank wasn’t just cruel; it was a spectacle designed to make Ivy a fool for simply daring to exist in their world.
At precisely 10:00 AM, the lawyer, Arthur Grayson, entered the room.
He was a man in his sixties, his gray suit crisp and his briefcase heavy with secrets. His face was carved by decades of handling fortunes and feuds.
The room hushed instantly as he set his briefcase on the table, opened it, and pulled out a single, sealed envelope. There was no flourish, no preamble.
He adjusted his glasses and scanned the crowd, his gaze pausing on Ivy for a fraction of a second—just long enough to unsettle Preston, who frowned and whispered to Marissa, “What’s that about?”
Gerald Hayes stood up, his pinstripe suit creasing as he pointed an accusing finger at Ivy. His voice boomed like a judge delivering a verdict.
“This woman is an imposter!” 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 nodded, eyes narrowed at Ivy as if she were a thief caught red-handed. Gerald’s wife added, “She’s probably got a fake ID in that rag of a bag.”
The accusation hung heavy in the air, turning Ivy into a criminal in their minds. Her presence was no longer just an annoyance; it was 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.
Arthur Grayson cleared his throat, the sound dry and authoritative, effectively silencing the rising tide of murmurs.
“We are here to read the last will and testament of Logan Alexander Thorne,” he announced, his voice carrying to the back of the room without the aid of a microphone. “Executed three years ago and verified as authentic.”
A ripple of confusion moved through the crowd. Three years?
Logan Thorne had been a ghost for only six months. His private jet had vanished over the vast, unforgiving expanse of the Pacific Ocean, leaving behind no wreckage, no body, and no closure. Just a silence that screamed.
That void had fueled endless headlines, wild speculation, and, for the people in this room, an insatiable greed. Most assumed he was dead. Most, if they were honest with themselves, hoped for it.
Preston straightened his tie, his smirk returning as he leaned back in his chair. “Let’s get to it then,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Who gets the keys to the kingdom?”
The air in the room grew thick with anticipation. Clara leaned forward, her manicured nails tapping a restless rhythm on her phone screen. She was already mentally drafting her victory post, imagining the influx of likes when she announced her inheritance.
Gerald crossed his arms tight across his chest, muttering under his breath about stock options and board seats. Lillian clutched her pearls so hard her knuckles turned white, whispering feverishly to Trevor about the summer house in Nice.
Ivy stood perfectly still in the back, the cloth bag now resting at her feet. She watched Grayson’s hands with an intensity that went unnoticed by the vultures in the front rows.
The lawyer broke the wax seal on the envelope. The sharp crack echoed in the quiet room like a pistol shot.
The crowd leaned in as one, their breathing shallow, their eyes hungry. This was the moment. This was what they had dressed for, schemed for, and flown across continents to witness.
Logan’s empire—a sprawling network of tech patents, prime real estate, and a biotech firm valued at over ninety billion dollars—was finally up for grabs. Or so they thought.
Grayson unfolded the heavy cream paper. He took a moment to smooth it out, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was steady but deliberate, dropping each word like a stone into a still, dark lake.
“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. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the grand hall.
Preston’s smile faltered, twitching at the corners. Clara’s phone slipped an inch in her hand, her thumb hovering over a draft that no longer made sense.
Gerald’s jaw tightened, grinding his teeth audibly. His wife’s emerald necklace suddenly seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
Nothing?
