CHAPTER ONE – THE INVITATION
Ivy first thought the message was a mistake.
Her phone vibrated softly on the cluttered wooden desk, the sound barely audible beneath the hum of the old ceiling fan. Outside her small off-campus apartment, the city dragged itself through another late afternoon—matatus blaring, voices rising and falling, the restless pulse of lives moving too fast for anyone to notice her standing still.
She didn’t touch the phone right away.
Ivy had learned, over the years, that good news rarely arrived without consequences. And bad news always arrived loudly.
The phone vibrated again.
She sighed, pushing aside a half-written dissertation draft, its margins filled with handwritten notes and questions she wasn’t sure she would ever answer. Her laptop screen glowed with academic seriousness—footnotes, citations, quiet ambition. The kind of work that demanded invisibility, patience, and discipline.
Not invitations.
She picked up the phone.
**Unknown Contact:**
*You’re invited.*
That was all it said.
No emojis. No warmth. No explanation.
Ivy frowned.
She opened the message fully.
---
**EMMY ROSSUM**
*Post-Graduation Celebration*
*Thompson Estate*
*Saturday Night*
*8:00 PM till late*
*Formal invitation attached.*
---
For a moment, Ivy stared at the screen as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more logical.
Emmy Rossum?
Her heart skipped—not with joy, but confusion.
Emmy Rossum didn’t invite people like Ivy.
Everyone knew that.
Emmy Rossum existed in a different orbit—one defined by money so old it had forgotten how to apologize, beauty sharpened into a weapon, and confidence inherited rather than earned. She was the daughter of **Rossum Thompson**, billionaire investor, political donor, and a man whose name could silence rooms.
Ivy swallowed.
She opened the attachment.
The invitation was elegant, minimal, and unmistakably expensive. Gold lettering. A crest she vaguely recognized from whispered conversations and Instagram posts she never lingered on. The language was polite, almost cold.
*We request the pleasure of your presence.*
Ivy laughed under her breath.
“Pleasure,” she whispered, testing the word like it didn’t belong to her.
She leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking beneath her weight. Her apartment felt smaller suddenly—its peeling paint, mismatched furniture, and borrowed bookshelf glaringly out of place against the image of a private estate.
She was not part of Emmy Rossum’s world.
She had never been.
---
Ivy had always existed on the edges.
Not poor enough to be pitied, not rich enough to be admired. She had built her academic reputation quietly—top grades, sharp research, a mind that noticed patterns others ignored. Professors respected her. Students barely remembered her.
She attended classes, took notes, went home.
No scandals. No viral moments. No powerful friends.
Her relationship with Emmy Rossum had been limited to passing glances in lecture halls and the occasional group project where Emmy never learned anyone’s name. Ivy doubted Emmy even remembered her face.
So why now?
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message.
**Unknown Contact:**
*Please confirm attendance.*
Ivy’s fingers hovered above the screen.
A thousand thoughts collided in her mind.
*What if this is a joke?*
*What if someone added her name accidentally?*
*What if saying yes means stepping into something she doesn’t understand?*
Her gaze drifted to the window. The sky had begun to darken, clouds gathering slowly, deliberately. A storm was coming. You could feel it in the air—the kind that announced itself hours before arrival.
She felt that same pressure inside her chest.
---
By evening, Ivy had mentioned the invitation to exactly one person: her roommate, Lorna.
Lorna froze mid-sip.
“Wait,” she said slowly, lowering her mug. “*That* Emmy Rossum?”
Ivy nodded.
“The Thompson Estate Emmy Rossum?” Lorna pressed.
“Yes.”
“The ‘my father funds half this city’ Emmy Rossum?”
“That one.”
Lorna stared at her like Ivy had just confessed to being adopted by royalty.
“Why would she invite you?”
Ivy shrugged, uncomfortable.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a general invite.”
Lorna laughed.
“There is no such thing as a *general invite* when it comes to Emmy Rossum.”
That was the truth Ivy had been avoiding.
Emmy’s parties were legendary—curated guest lists, strict security, unwritten rules. They were places where futures were shaped, destroyed, or bought. Places where scandals began quietly and ended loudly.
“You’re going, right?” Lorna asked.
Ivy hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
Lorna leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Listen to me. You don’t just *get invited* to something like this. Either she wants something from you—or someone made a very big mistake.”
Neither option felt safe.
---
Later that night, alone again, Ivy sat on her bed, invitation open on her phone like a dare.
She reread it slowly.
Saturday night.
Two days away.
She imagined herself there—standing awkwardly in a room full of tailored suits and expensive perfume. Imagined the glances. The silent judgments.
She imagined Emmy Rossum’s eyes.
Cool. Measuring.
Not kind.
Her phone vibrated once more.
This time, the name was clear.
**Emmy Rossum**
Ivy’s breath caught.
---
*Hi Ivy.*
*I hope you received the invitation.*
*It would mean a lot if you came.*
The message was polite. Perfect.
Too perfect.
Ivy typed and deleted a response three times.
Finally:
*Thank you for the invitation. I’ll be there.*
The message sent with a soft click.
And just like that, something shifted.
Ivy didn’t know it yet—but she had crossed a line.
---
Across the city, in a house that didn’t believe in shadows, Emmy Rossum lowered her phone.
She smiled.
Not a warm smile.
A satisfied one.
“Good,” she murmured.
Behind her, music played softly. A party in preparation. A night already planned down to the smallest detail.
Everything was ready.
