Ava remained perfectly still, her hazel eyes catching the faint, predatory glow from Chloe’s screen, but she gave no reaction. Her profound composure seemed to only intensify their sport, as if her dignity were a fortress wall they were determined to breach. Hailey leaned in again, her tone now a mockery of pity.
– «The poor thing. She doesn’t even realize she’s a meme now.»
The laughter swelled into a cruel chorus, an act of collective dehumanization that cast Ava as a target for their idle amusement. For a brief moment, Ava’s fingers tightened on the strap of her canvas bag—a simple, handmade item, devoid of any designer logo. She did not look at Chloe or Hailey. She did not acknowledge Carter’s jibe or Madison’s barb.
She simply stood, her breathing slow and even, her gaze fixed on the ornate, empty chair at the head of the room where the lawyer would soon preside. To them, her silence was an admission of guilt, a confirmation that she did not belong. They were incapable of perceiving the formidable strength beneath that quiet exterior, the power in a stillness that could command a room without uttering a single word.
The crowd grew more boisterous as the last of the guests arrived. A former business partner, Mark Jennings, clad in a severe pinstripe suit, muttered to his wife.
– «Julian always did attract strays. This one has no business being here.»
His wife, a woman whose neck and wrists were heavy with emeralds, nodded in sharp agreement, her eyes performing a surgical dissection of Ava’s attire.
– «Utterly classless,» she declared in a stage whisper. «She’s an embarrassment to the family just by breathing the same air.»
A distant cousin, Kyle, who sported a ridiculous velvet blazer, called out from across the room.
– «Hey, sweetheart! The kitchen is that way!» he shouted, pointing toward a service door while his friends slapped him on the back in congratulation.
An elderly aunt, Eleanor, whose presence was announced by ropes of pearls, clicked her tongue in disapproval.
– «Honestly, someone should have her removed before Mr. Davenport arrives. It’s deeply disrespectful to Julian’s memory.»
Madison, her crimson dress rustling like dry leaves, made her way across the room, her high heels clicking on the marble with the finality of a ticking clock. She stopped a mere inch from Ava, her taller frame casting a shadow, her expensive perfume an acrid, suffocating cloud.
– «You seem to be lost, darling,» she purred, her voice amplified to capture the attention of everyone present. She reached out and flicked a piece of lint from Ava’s cardigan, a gesture of profound condescension, her long, manicured nails scraping the fabric.
– «This is a private gathering, not a soup kitchen. Why don’t you run along before you humiliate yourself any further?»
The room watched, a captive audience. Some smirked openly, others exchanged knowing glances. Not a single person intervened. Ava’s hand remained steady on her bag, but the deliberate invasion of her personal space felt like a physical blow. Madison’s proximity was a calculated act of aggression. A cousin standing nearby muttered, «She’s got some nerve,» and the room’s tacit approval of Madison’s bullying was palpable. Their shared silence was a form of complicity in Ava’s public shaming.
Ava did not flinch. Her gaze flickered for a fraction of a second to a small, discreet security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling, its tiny red light blinking with steady rhythm. She knew its feed was live, streaming directly to a secure server that only two people in the world could access. One of them was her. The other… was not in the room. Not yet.
As the attendees began to take their seats, Kyle, the cousin in the velvet blazer, crept up behind Ava. «Watch this,» he whispered to his friends. He had scribbled the words CHARITY CASE in thick black marker on a cocktail napkin. In a swift, sly movement, he tucked the napkin into the strap of Ava’s canvas bag. The room took notice, and a wave of snickers rippled through the crowd as people pointed at the cruel note, its bold letters a brand of shame on Ava’s back.
Chloe, stifling her laughter, snapped another picture. Hailey whispered, «She’s a walking punchline.» Ava, her attention fixed on the front of the room, remained oblivious. The crowd’s amusement was electric, a shared current of cruelty. Kyle leaned back, a triumphant grin on his face, as Eleanor muttered, «Serves her right for dressing like that.» The prank was more than just mean-spirited; it was a public spectacle designed to make a fool of the woman who had dared to exist in their space.
At precisely ten o’clock, the lawyer, Mr. Davenport, made his entrance. He was a man in his late sixties, dressed in an immaculate gray suit, his leather briefcase looking heavy with the burden of a hundred family secrets. A lifetime of navigating the treacherous waters of wealth and familial strife was etched into the lines of his face. The room fell silent as he placed his briefcase on the great mahogany table, clicked open the latches, and withdrew a single, thick envelope sealed with crimson wax.
There was no preamble, no flourish. He adjusted his spectacles and let his gaze sweep across the assembled faces, pausing for a mere fraction of a second on Ava. The glance was so fleeting as to be almost imperceptible, but it was long enough to trouble Carter, who leaned over to Madison and whispered, «What was that about?»
Mark Jennings surged to his feet, his pinstripe suit wrinkling in his agitation. He pointed a trembling finger directly at Ava, his voice booming with righteous indignation.
– «This woman is an imposter!» he declared, as if he were a prosecutor delivering a closing argument. «Julian would never have allowed someone of her… caliber… anywhere near his home! She is here to defraud us, it’s as plain as day!»
A murmur of assent rippled through the room. Heads nodded, and eyes narrowed with suspicion, recasting Ava from a pathetic stray into a cunning criminal. Mark’s wife, her emeralds flashing, added fuel to the fire.
– «I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a forged identity card in that pathetic little bag of hers.»
The accusation hung in the air, transforming Ava’s quiet presence into an intolerable offense. The weight of their collective judgment was immense, each hostile whisper another lash intended to strip her of her composure. Still, Ava’s expression remained a mask of tranquility, and her silence only seemed to stoke the flames of their manufactured outrage.
Mr. Davenport cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the tense silence.
– «We are gathered here today to read the last will and testament of Julian Alexander Blackwood, executed three years ago and certified as authentic.»
A fresh wave of whispers swept the room. Three years ago. Julian had disappeared only six months prior, his private jet having vanished somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. There was no wreckage, no body—only a gaping void that had spawned endless headlines and fanned the flames of their avarice. Most had accepted he was dead. Most had hoped for it.
Carter straightened his gold tie, his smug smirk returning.
– «Well then, let’s get on with it. Who gets the keys to the kingdom?»
Chloe leaned forward, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently on her phone screen as she mentally composed her victory post. Mark Jennings crossed his arms, muttering about stock options. Eleanor clutched her pearls, whispering to Kyle about the family’s summer compound in the Hamptons. Ava remained still, her canvas bag now resting quietly at her feet. She watched Mr. Davenport’s hands as he broke the wax seal. The crisp crack echoed loudly in the hushed room.
The crowd leaned forward as one, their breathing shallow, their eyes shining with a raw, primal hunger. This was the moment they had all dressed for, schemed for, and flown across continents to witness. Julian’s empire—a labyrinth of tech patents, global real estate holdings, and a biotech firm valued at over ninety billion dollars—was about to be carved up and served. Or so they believed.
