Romans & histoires Heiress Artinya

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.

Though quiet, the words reached my ears loud and clear. Sally's lips curled into a faint, mocking smile when she saw me. With a delicate hand, she smoothed her dress and said, "Well, if it isn't Rachel, who claims to be Sanfiric Inc.'s heiress. Showing up to a graduation ceremony dressed like that?" Her remark triggered a burst of laughter from the surrounding students. "Ha! Just look at her, she's dressed worse than me and still dares to compete with Sally." "Right? She's so deep in her delusion she actually believes she's some kind of heiress."

From a distance, she looked like exactly what she was supposed to be: a poised billionaire heiress, draped in silk, her dark hair swept into an elegant twist. Up close, the illusion fractured. Her shoulders were tight. Her smile—when she offered it—was carefully rationed. And every few minutes, her gaze flicked instinctively toward the raised dais at the center of the room, where her stepmother presided like a queen over court. Margaux Laurent was radiant tonight. She always was. She wore crimson, the color of conquest, her blonde hair arranged perfectly, her laughter ringing loud enough to command attention. Executives clustered around her, men twice her age nodding eagerly as she gestured

Vanessa followed shortly after. Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, Vanessa smirked. “Isabella, aren’t you afraid? Digging up other people’s dirt like this… what happens when yours comes out?” Isabella’s eyes narrowed slightly, a cold glint flashing within them. She turned, voice indifferent. “Who doesn’t have secrets in this industry? You included… Miss Hartley.” She deliberately emphasized the surname. Then, as if recalling something, she added lightly— “Speaking of which… doesn’t the title ‘mistress pretending to be a rich heiress’ suit you quite well? Saves me the trouble of coming up with a headline when I expose you.”

"The world has moved on, Alia. This is not the age of family names and private clubs controlling access anymore. People like you should have been cleared out a long time ago." I looked at her young, hungry face and understood her better than she would have liked. Jealousy was the surface. Underneath it was the shortcut. If she crushed me, she could claim the title, the clients, the media story, and the shiny image of a brave young woman taking on entrenched privilege. She didn’t even need to know how the work was done. She only needed to make me the villain first. "Are you sure you want to take this over?" I asked.