All Chapters of THE SWITCHED HEIRESS : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The Castell mansion no longer belonged to silence.By dawn, journalists had flooded the gates, cameras flashing through the iron bars, hungry for a glimpse of the woman who had become the headline of the year,“HAZEL CASTELL ENGAGED TO DIMITRI MORETTI.”Hazel’s assistant stood near the window, phone pressed to her ear, voice low.“Yes… No statement yet. Miss Castell will not be speaking to the press today.”Hazel herself sat at her desk, unbothered, the morning sun gleaming against her pearl earrings. The calmness she wore was deliberate, armor woven from control.Her assistant lowered the phone. “It’s everywhere, Miss Castell. Every outlet has picked it up.”Hazel nodded once, eyes fixed on the open file in front of her. “Good. Then it’s working.”The assistant hesitated. “Should I draft a response? Mr. Castell”“Edwin knows,” Hazel interrupted softly. “If he wanted to stop it, he already would have.”The girl swallowed. “Yes, Miss.”Hazel stood, straightening her suit jacket. “Have

The world had fallen in love with an illusion.By morning, every glossy magazine and online feature carried their faces, Hazel Castell and Dimitri Moretti, the empire couple.Her photo from last night’ s luxury dinner event, a faint smile, eyes of cold fire, was captioned “The Heiress Who Never Falters.” He was cropped from an older interview: the charming heir who had everything, and now, apparently, everyone’s dream fiancée.Hazel read it without emotion. Her breakfast, black coffee, and one slice of toast remained untouched on the tray beside her. She leaned against the glass wall of her suite, phone in hand, reading headline after headline.Destiny or Strategy? Castell Engagement Sends Markets Soaring.The Perfect Couple of Power and Poise.Inside the Union That Will Reshape Europe’s Elite.The world adored stories that looked like fairy tales.Hazel knew better. Fairy tales always required someone to bleed.“Miss Castell?” her assistant’s voice came softly through the door. “Your

The sun rose gently over Castell Mansion, its light scattering across glass walls and marble floors like a thousand unkept promises. In the breakfast room, Hazel sat before a table set for royalty, silver cutlery, freshly cut fruit, and black coffee steaming in its porcelain cup. The reports lay open beside her plate, a cascade of figures and projections from Castell Industries. Her eyes followed them with precision, but her hand trembled once, a soft, almost imperceptible flutter. She steadied it before the movement could exist long enough to be noticed. Control, after all, was her only form of prayer. Dimitri entered moments later, his footsteps quiet against the marble. No arrogance today. No performance. Just a man who didn’t quite know what to do with sincerity. “You handled the press beautifully last night,” he said, pouring his own coffee. “They couldn’t stop talking abou

The suite was quiet except for the sound of Hazel removing her jewelry. Each clasp, each faint metallic click, was its own punctuation mark to the evening. She lined the diamonds on the vanity one by one, the same way Edwin had once aligned his fountain pens, symmetry as control, control as survival.Behind her, Dimitri loosened his tie.“You handled yourself beautifully,” he said.Hazel met his eyes in the mirror.“I always do.”He moved closer, hands resting on her shoulders. The image in the mirror was convincing: a groom and his bride in soft lamplight, tenderness implied. But the air between them had cooled somewhere between the terrace and the dance floor.“Hazel,” he began, voice lowered. “About tonight, Valentina only meant…”“She always means.” Hazel’s tone cut through the air like the edge of the diamond earrings she now laid aside. “Don’t defend her.”Dimitri sighed, the sound weary rather than wounded. “I’m tr

The rain began just as London’s skyline blurred into a soft, golden dusk, the kind that made the city look cleaner than it truly was. Dimitri watched droplets slide down the glass of his car window, each one tracing the reflection of his face: composed, unreadable, a man the press called “the perfect fiancé.”He smiled at the irony. Perfect had always been a word people used when they didn’t look close enough.The driver slowed as they turned onto Belgravia’s quiet avenue. The Castell residence loomed at the end of it, not the main mansion, but Valentina’s private townhouse. It was far smaller, though “small” by her standards meant four stories of marble and silence.Dimitri had told Hazel he was attending a dinner with investors. The lie had come too easily.He stepped out, the soft click of his shoes swallowed by the rain. As the door opened, he was greeted not by servants, but by Valentina herself. She wore a muted gray dress, pearls at her throat, hair pinned with the precision of