Influential figures from across the country streamed into the grand Richardson estate, their luxury cars lining the private driveway like a parade of status. They had come for the funeral of Grandpa Smith, a man whose legacy stretched far beyond the family name. He was the kind of person who left a mark on everyone he encountered—generous, wise, and deeply loved. People had flown across oceans not just to pay their respects, but to be seen doing so.
The truth, however, was more layered.
Many of the dignitaries weren't there solely out of reverence. The Richardson estate was legendary for its opulent gatherings, and this one—despite being a funeral—was no exception. Deals would be struck, alliances formed, and no one wanted to miss an opportunity cloaked in mourning.
Inside, domestic staff moved with grace and precision, weaving through the guests, trays of exotic hors d'oeuvres and vintage wine balanced in their hands. Soft orchestral music drifted through the garden, offering a tranquil backdrop to whispered conversations and exchanged glances.
Stephanie Richardson, poised and radiant despite the occasion, spotted the Mays approaching. She lifted a glass of wine from a passing tray and moved gracefully toward them.
"Our condolences," Mr. May said with a polite nod.
"Thank you," Stephanie replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"My wife and I had already planned a trip when we received your invitation," he added. "But we canceled everything to be here."
Stephanie's smile widened—sharp, cool. "That's interesting. I don't recall giving the event planner your name for any of the printed invites." She took a slow sip of her wine.
Caught off guard, Anna May cleared her throat, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere. But Stephanie wasn't done.
"I don't know how you managed to get an invitation," she said coolly, "but since you're already here, I won't have you thrown out. That would cause a scene, and I doubt Smith would've appreciated that. So," she leaned in slightly, "why don't you enjoy the party while it lasts?" With that, she turned and walked away without another glance.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Anna hissed at her husband. "I told you we shouldn't have come to her. But no, you wouldn't listen."
"I thought seeing us here might earn us some favor with the family," Mr. May muttered, still reeling. "How did she even know we weren't on the guest list?"
Anna sneered. "I heard she's a witch who monitors everything going on in this family."
"Keep your voice down!" he warned, glancing around. Then, trying to recover, Anna gestured subtly. "There—look, the Whitestones. Maybe we can strike up a conversation. They might be interested in backing our company."
They walked over—hopeful, desperate—and ended up being politely but clearly dismissed.
Inside the Mansion
"Call me Mitchell," Stephanie said coldly, summoning her personal assistant with a crisp command.
Within minutes, Mitchell appeared, composed and professional. "Ma'am, you sent for me?"
"I saw the Mays in the yard. They weren't invited," Stephanie said with a steely smile. "Care to explain how they got in?"
"There may have been a slight mix-up with the printing, or possibly a technical error with the guest list," Mitchell replied, her voice as calm as she could manage.
"A mix-up?" Stephanie chuckled. "Sounds like you're tired of this job."
"My apologies, ma'am. It won't happen again," Mitchell said, standing tall despite the icy sweat running down her back. Stephanie despised weakness.
Stephanie gave a tight smile. "Make sure it doesn't. If it does—consider yourself gone. Now, leave."
Mitchell nodded and exited with dignity, refusing to let the sting show.
Elsewhere in the Estate
"Guess someone upset my darling wife," Henry Richardson said as he stepped into the room, his tone teasing.
"I saw the Mays," Stephanie scoffed.
"The Mays?" He laughed. "And they had the nerve to approach you?"
"They even tried to chat like we were old friends. I should've had them escorted out."
"Let it go, darling. Do it for Smith."
"For Smith," she echoed, and they clinked glasses before sharing a brief kiss.
"You're going to miss him a lot," she said quietly.
"Definitely. But not as much as Ethan. He's locked himself in his room—refusing to come downstairs."
She exhaled sharply. "He should be here, doing what Liam is doing. He's the heir, not Liam."
"He's grieving," Henry replied gently. "Let Liam handle things for now."
Stephanie narrowed her eyes. "Defending your nephew?"
"I'm not."
"Well, people are talking. Gossip's flying that Liam will be the next heir. And that's exactly what your sister wants."
"Steph," Henry sighed. "They're just teenagers. Don't pit them against each other."
She gave a wry smile. "We'll see how it plays out. One way or another, either Liam or Ethan will inherit the Richardson legacy."
"There is no throne," Henry laughed, kissing her hand. "Now let's not leave our guests unattended. Come on, princess."
She chuckled and rose. "Alright."
In a Quiet Corner
Anna, Henry's younger sister, pulled her son Liam aside.
"You smiled at everyone, right?" she asked.
"Yes, Mom," Liam nodded. "Even at the reporters. Just like you said."
"Good boy," she said, stroking his hair. "If you follow my instructions closely, you'll be the heir. Got it?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Have you seen Ethan around?"
"No. I think he's still locked away. He was Grandpa Smith's favorite, you know."
Anna scoffed. "That's his problem. Smith is gone. Now, it's your time. Let's go out—the board of directors are mingling with the guests. Be charming. Win them over."
"Yes, Mom."
They walked off arm in arm, Liam's smile already fixed for his next performance.
Upstairs
A worker approached Ethan's door with a tray.
"Sir," she called gently, "we brought your food. All your favorites."
There was a pause. Then a voice—firm, cold, unyielding.
"I have no appetite. Leave. And don't knock again, or you'll all lose your jobs."
They stood frozen. He didn't bluff—and everyone knew it. Quietly, they turned and left him alone with his grief.