Fake Heiress's A Pet-speaking Detective Novels & Stories

My suit was just pressed when I got to Reid Industries, and I was already planning for eventualities. The faint sound of my footfall as soon as I entered the foyer served as a reminder of how vulnerable we had become. Ethan's antics were no longer an annoyance; rather, they posed a direct risk to Sophia's security and the meticulously maintained incognito she still maintained. Marta, my assistant, greeted me at the elevators with a somber look on her face. "You must see this, sir." She gave me a tablet with a breaking-news push alert on it( "Uncovering the Mysterious Heiress: Barista 'Sophia Thomas' Is not Who She Says She Is")

He didn't look homeless, and one can tell from one glance that he is well-read. The truth is I was not finding any of his questions funny as I felt miserable and pained from all the embarrassment I had earlier encountered. I pulled down my shirt for him to see out of annoyance. “Here it is sir, it is a fucking birthmark and I hate it, I will gladly give you if you want it," I said in frustration. “I'm so sorry to bother you my lady, but I happen to come from London, and this mark of yours is a mark that is mostly associated with the royal family, I think if that mark is real, that you may be a princess,” he said, looking surprised at his own words.

But when I ask, “May I ask who you are and what you are here for?” He seems so nonchalant and shrugs before answering, “My name is detective Harrison, and I am here because a Robert Fedorov filed a missing persons report for his teenage daughter, Arabella Fedorov. He told me that he tracked her phone to this very place and then when he spoke with you, you acted suspicious.”

“After all, you managed to get a trace of them.” Theodore was staring silently at his young lady. “As I said, I won’t interfere, in fact, I’ll help you with this. After all, I am Claudette, the only heiress of de Saint-Germain’s group of companies. I am that powerful,” she spoke. “I’ll help you even if it means I’ll be your pawn just to lure them out and push them to your trap.” That actually made his eyes widen. Being a spy on this case somehow has its give and take relationship. It may also have so many sacrifices to take to obtain the goal.

“You know how much I love you, Steffy. I can’t let you die.” Shutting her eyes, she laid down on the bed and felt exhausted as she stared at the ceiling. Her feet oozed with blood, staining the white bed sheet with crimson. Agitated, she sat on the bed again. “Kill… kill them… the heiress should kill…” “Whose there?” she exclaimed when she suddenly heard an unfamiliar voice. “Don’t you recognize me?” replied the voice in her head. It was mocking her. “Who the fuck are you!” Tiffany demanded again.

BLURB For three years, Seraphina gave everything she had to a man who never saw her clearly. She cooked, she endured, she stayed quiet through every insult his family threw at her, and she secretly kept his failing business alive from the shadows, without him ever knowing it was her. Then his first love walked back through the door, and Seraphina disappeared. She walked out as his invisible wife and came back as Seraphina Vaughn, the hidden heiress of the most powerful family in the country. The woman two dangerous older brothers would tear the world apart for, the woman every powerful man in the city now wants standing beside him. Damian thought she would come back within a week; bu

Isabella's POV The morning after the gala, my face was on every news site and social media platform in the country. "The Lost Morrison Heiress Found." "Billionaire's Long-Lost Granddaughter Revealed." But my favorite headline was from a gossip blog: "Marcus Wei's Biggest Mistake: He Divorced a Morrison." I read that one three times before I started making calls. It was time to stop playing defense. Time to attack. I woke up in my bedroom at the Morrison estate to my phone vibrating nonstop.

I gripped the edge of the table. The screen cut to a split graphic. Left side: Giselle’s recent headshot, elegant, composed. Right side: a grainy still from security footage—Octavia standing over an open grave, face half-turned toward the camera, and unmistakable. The headline crawler at the bottom scrolled in bold red letters: BILLIONAIRE HEIRESS NEARLY BURIED ALIVE BY STEPSISTER. I grabbed my phone and dialed Giselle’s number, but it went straight to voicemail.

“Oh, don't be surprised. I did not know who you were at first. But ever since I got alerted about someone trying to get information about Hustana company, I ended up seeing that that person was you, my dear detective” “How?”. I asked her, not buying her words. “I am a ghost. That was how I was able to track you and know who you were”. She said to me, and because of the serious look on her face, and the way she did not blink or bat an eye when she lied to me, I stupidly thought that she was serious about being a ghost. That was until she teasingly added, after giggling, “I am simply joking with you. I am a hacker”.

She had stood on that stage and revealed herself as Hazel Saint Claire, CEO of E&H Investments, and I had stood there like a fool, my mouth hanging open, unable to process what I was seeing. Hazel Saint Claire. Not Hazel Rossi. Not some woman trying to build a small restaurant. Hazel Saint Claire. Billionaire heiress. CEO of a global company. Granddaughter of Margaret Sinclair. And she hadn't told me. All those months together. All those nights when I had asked her what was wrong and she had lied to my face. All those moments when she could have trusted me, could have told me the truth, and instead she had kept it locked away like I was someone she couldn't rely on.