The judgment in the room was a palpable force, as thick and suffocating as the scent of wilting lilies and aged leather. From the moment she crossed the threshold, Ava Harrison was cataloged, assessed, and ultimately, written off. Her simple gray linen dress, the well-loved threads of her faded blue cardigan, and the quiet discretion of her worn ballet flats were enough to earn a cascade of silent, condescending dismissals from the assembly of polished predators. Their smiles were veneers, stretched thin over sharp teeth.
A man, his portly figure constrained by a suit and a gaudy gold tie, was the first to give voice to their collective disdain. He let out a short, barking laugh that was meant to be shared.
– «Is that one of the caterers?» he projected, not bothering to lower his voice.
Nearby, a young woman with diamonds dripping from her ears leaned conspiratorially toward her companion.
– «More likely some forgotten affair from his past,» she whispered, her words a venomous hiss. «Probably thinks a sob story will get her a piece of the pie.»
Ava Harrison remained poised near the entrance of the grand hall, a solitary figure against the backdrop of opulence. She offered no retort, her expression giving no hint of the storm of contempt swirling around her. Her only movement was a slight, almost imperceptible adjustment of the worn canvas strap of her shoulder bag. To this congregation of heirs and vultures, she was an anomaly, a ghost who had wandered into a sacred ceremony reserved for bloodlines, power, and immense fortune.
Their assumptions, however, were fundamentally flawed. The woman they had so casually and cruelly cast aside was not an outsider. She was the legal wife of the very man whose immense fortune they had all gathered to claim. And the proceeding about to unfold was not merely a reading of a will; it was a carefully orchestrated final examination, a test she herself had helped to conceive.
Blackwood Manor, the estate in question, was a gothic masterpiece of stone and slate perched atop a sprawling hill in New York’s Hudson Valley, its imposing iron gates and ancient walls serving as a bulwark against the modern world. Inside, the great hall was a cathedral dedicated to the worship of ancestral wealth.
Sunlight, filtered through tall, arched windows, struggled to pierce the atmosphere of polished mahogany, expensive Scotch, and the delicate perfume of roses arranged in porcelain vases that were worth more than a modest family sedan. Above, colossal crystal chandeliers hung like constellations of frozen light, casting a fractured, brilliant glow over the forty-two individuals gathered below.
They were a collection of relatives, business partners, financial advisors, and their assorted assistants, each one meticulously costumed for their role in the grand drama of inheritance. The men stood in bespoke suits, the women in dresses of silk and satin, their every gesture punctuated by the cold fire of diamonds. They circulated through the cavernous space, sipping vintage champagne from delicate flutes, their expressions of sympathy as carefully rehearsed as their predatory smiles.
Ava moved through them like a phantom, her soft-soled shoes making no sound on the imported Italian marble floor. She found a sanctuary in a far corner, beside a towering window that offered a panoramic view of the misty, rolling hills beyond the estate. Her dress was modest and practical, the soft gray fabric a testament to years of comfortable wear. The pale blue cardigan, its color softened by time, was draped casually over her shoulders.
She had gathered her dark, lustrous hair into a simple, low bun at the nape of her neck, allowing a few errant strands to escape and frame a face of striking, unadorned beauty. She possessed high cheekbones, intelligent hazel eyes that seemed to absorb every detail of her surroundings, and a full mouth that remained placidly closed when a lesser person might have lashed out.
At thirty-six, Ava’s beauty was not the loud, demanding kind that clamored for attention. It was a quieter, more profound allure, like a haunting piece of music that lingers in the memory long after it has faded.
The man in the gold tie, Carter Blackwood, Julian’s second cousin, propped himself against a massive mahogany credenza. The light glinted off the face of his Swiss watch as a smirk twisted his lips.
– «Seriously, who is handling security today?» he announced to his clique of cousins. «Did they forget to lock the service entrance?»
His sister, Madison, a striking woman poured into a crimson sheath dress, laughed as she tossed her perfectly coiffed blonde hair.
– «Perhaps she’s here to polish the silverware one last time before it’s all divided up.»
The ensuing laughter was sharp and brittle, the sound of shattering glass. Across the room, a younger woman named Chloe, a niece who had leveraged her family name into a tech startup and a massive social media following, nudged her friend, Hailey.
– «I bet you anything she’s one of his little charity projects,» Chloe whispered, her voice carrying easily in a momentary lull. «Or a mistress he tired of and forgot to pay off. Look at that bag. She’s probably got a sandwich in there.»
Hailey giggled, her eyes lighting up with malicious glee as she surreptitiously angled her smartphone.
– «This is so going on my story. Hashtag, BlackwoodWillDrama.»
Chloe’s own thumbs were a blur across her screen as she composed a caption for the photo she’d just captured of Ava. Spotted: Julian’s charity case trying to crash the will reading.
– «Guess she thinks that thrift-store-chic look entitles her to a billion dollars,» she added aloud, her voice dripping with scorn, ensuring her words found their target.
The circle around her erupted in renewed laughter. Several others pulled out their own devices to like and share the post, which was already metastasizing across the internet. A torrent of comments appeared from complete strangers, branding Ava a desperate nobody, their digital vitriol creating an invisible pyre that mirrored the room’s collective disdain.
