Billionaire's Masquerade Novels & Stories

_Tessa POV_ The music was kinda loud, you know it was actually vibrating through my bones and made my hips want to sway, even though my heels were already screaming at me. Fashion is pain right? And let me not get started with how super sweet the champagne is. Rich people totally pretend they love that stuff, just so they look classy. But hey, this wasn't just any get together party, this was a billionaire masquerade ball, the kind of men who wore power like a perfume and arrogance as second skin. Confidence overload, I swear.

he said softly, “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” ─𖤝─ Rino ─𖤝─ Age 43 | The Aurelio Marcone Retrospective | Chicago’s Annual Billionaire Art Gala The thing about betrayal was that it made everything clearer. The room glowed gold and white, stupid modern art hanging from wires, and paintings that looked like someone let a toddler loose with a brush and cocaine. Billionaires clinked their glasses, laughing too loud, talking too big. They all pretended to love art, but we all knew the truth.

I wanted to believe that's what she had to say. “No. It's something better. Our company is a branch company of a major conglomerate and our headquarters is hosting a masquerade ball.” Dorothy said. I didn't understand how a masquerade ball would be the solution to my problems. Would it? “And….” I said. “I know you're wondering how this is your solution, but do you know that there would be billionaires from all over the city at that ball?” Dorothy asked, almost in a whisper.

Agreed that Chloe deserved the nickname Medusa, because all she did was throw temper tantrums. The tapping sound of loafers echoed throughout the room. A Richard Smith had arrived with more than four bodyguards and several directors at his side. The wealthy man's bodyguards wore all black, while the directors were more varied, some wearing gray, white, and black suits but with different styles from the bodyguards. Richard Smith wore a gray custom suit whose price is unimaginable for someone who has to pay in installments for three years to buy a house. The loafers he wore were black with gray accents to match his outfit. The shop crew lined up on the right and left, welcoming the group of ri

"Unfortunately I do, I've had the displeasure for the past few weeks of wading through your filth. I have the children you sold away into captivity by the way. By the end of tomorrow the whole world is going to know what you are not to worry." He struggled against his restraints and swore a blue streak. Demented fuck. I stood back and let him tire his old ass out. Funny, up close he didn't look like either of his personas. Not the great senator, nor the axis of evil. Instead he looked like a sixty five year old degenerate down on his luck.

Meet Marie Rodrigo. 22-year-old girl born and raised in Texas who moved to New York after High School. Works as the CEO's assistant at Alan Establishment. Has been working at Alan Establishment for a year now and loves her job. Meet Karter Allan. 33-year-old man, the youngest self-made billionaire in America. Owner and Founder of Allan Establishment. Known for being somewhat of a playboy and a cruel boss. What happens when Marie has an encounter with her big bad boss Karter? Will Karter start to feel attracted to Marie, can Marie break down his walls and find out why he has such trouble committing? Read The Billionaire to find out.

The masked stranger stood and removed the silver mask. The entire market gasped. Cassian Vale. Everyone in Velmora knew that face. The sharp cheekbones, the cold gray eyes, the expression that had graced the covers of empire journals and financial spell ledgers since he inherited the Vale fortune at twenty-three. The youngest billionaire in the realm. Owner of the crystal railways. The sky ports. Half the magical banks in the empire. And currently staring at her like she had just become the most dangerous thing in his world. “Take her,” he said.

It was the annual Masquerade Ball , an exclusive charity event where the city’s elite shed their everyday identities for one decadent night of anonymity. Isabelle Moreau adjusted the delicate black lace mask over her eyes, her pulse fluttering with nervous excitement. At 31, she was the quiet, devoted wife of tech executive Nathan Moreau. She rarely attended events like this without him, but Nathan had been called away on urgent business and insisted she go. “Have fun for once,” he had said with a distracted kiss on her cheek. She felt exposed in her deep emerald gown. The silk hugged her full breasts and flared at her hips, with a daring slit that revealed one smooth, toned leg with every s

Especially him. Damian Blackwood. The man I am supposed to marry. A billionaire whose name made tycoons tremble. Cold, ruthless, untouchable. I had seen the way he looked at me during our brief engagement meetings—like I was just another piece of asset, another acquisition. And I refuse to be bought. The curtains lifted. Applause rolled through the crowd. One by one, we glided onto the stage, gowns shimmering under the lights. Each of us masked, each mysterious, each promised to the highest bidder for the sake of “charity.” My turn came all too soon. My heels clicking like gunshots against the polished floor.

Malakai The Grand Regent Theater was a sprawling monument to old money and high-society sins. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen rain from the vaulted, gold-leaf ceilings, casting a heavy, opulent glow over the sea of the city's elite. Velvet drapes muffled the low murmur of million-dollar bids, and tonight, every face was hidden behind an exquisite, aristocratic mask. A masquerade auction. The perfect playground for monsters.