She Was Treated Like a Nobody at the Party—Until Her Billionaire Husband Walked In (2 of 5)

So I ran a little experiment. I pulled my hair back, slipped into a basic black server’s uniform, and entered the party through the staff entrance.

From the moment I stepped into the ballroom with a tray of champagne, I was invisible.

“Miss,” snapped a woman in crimson sequins, not even glancing up. “This is warm. Try doing your job.”

That was Vanessa. Magazine-famous and manners-deficient. I nodded, replaced her glass, and moved on.

Mrs. Langford, the evening’s coordinator, spotted me next. She radiated control in gold lamé. “What’s your name?” she demanded.

“Elena,” I replied.

She smirked. “Well, Elena, try not to mess this up. This isn’t a diner.”

I smiled tightly and kept moving. Over the next hour, I was criticized, condescended to, and treated like background noise. No one asked my name again. No one thanked me.

When a staff member called in sick, things spiraled.

Mrs. Langford stormed into the prep area, fuming. “You. Elena. Get in the kitchen—we need help with dishes.”

I blinked. “I was brought in to serve.”