The Aristocratic Heiress From The Countryside Novels & Stories

“Smart girl. Don’t worry — I’m not interested in your little love story. I have bigger plans.” He walked to the desk and handed me an envelope — thick, unmarked. “This will cover the exact amount. No more, no less. Deliver it to Heather, and she’ll have no excuse to linger.” I took it, my hands shaking. It was heavier than I expected, like it carried more than just money. “And the favor?” I asked quietly. “When?” His gaze turned cold and his mouth curved into a grin before he said, “It wouldn't be fun if I tell you now, would it, princess?"

Crystal chandeliers dripping with light, champagne flutes floating through the air like magic, and a sea of tailored suits and expensive perfume. And tonight, I wasn’t the broken wife everyone whispered about. I was the woman no one could take their eyes off. Heads turned as I entered, arm-in-arm with Vivian. The room quieted just enough for me to hear the murmurs starting. “Who is she?” “God, look at that face…” “She must be some European royalty or something—no one walks like that unless they were born on a throne.” I didn’t acknowledge a single one. I just smiled slowly, like a secret, and let the crowd swallow me whole.

I wanted to call out for help, but a part of me suspected I might be kidnapped, and alerting whoever was holding me might not be the best idea. I slipped on my slippers and stood up, feeling a bit dizzy. My head throbbed, but I managed to move forward. I gripped my hairpin tightly, using it as a makeshift defense. As I stepped out of the room, I took in the grandeur of the mansion. It was huge, even bigger than mine, and beautifully decorated. The walls were painted white, and the hallway was adorned with various art pieces. The opulence suggested that my kidnapper was wealthy, which made me wonder what their motives were because it was clear that they don't need money from me.

He frowned, “watch your tone.” “I asked you a question, Lucas. Don't mess with me.” I replied, with anger burning within me. “Why shouldn't I mess with you? Who are you? You're nothing but a pathetic heiress with nothing in her bank account. No money, no assets. Nothing.” “My child is in Kate. You can't do this to me!” I wailed, “God, you're quite slow.” I blinked.

He just stood there, staring at me across the crowded ballroom with an expression of complete devastation. The girl he'd thrown away, the wife he'd neglected and humiliated, the woman he'd told would never find anyone better, was Isabella Morrison. Granddaughter of Alexander Morrison. Heir to one of the largest fortunes in the country. One of the most powerful women in New York. And he'd let me go without a fight. The applause finally died down and I sat back down, accepting congratulations from the people at my table with grace and poise I'd learned from watching my brothers navigate society. But I was hyperaware of the Wei family table, of the chaos I knew was happening there.

Standing at 5'8", with her delicate porcelain skin, vibrant green eyes, and soft auburn hair often styled in elegant waves, she carried an air of sophistication that was hard to ignore. Born as Lady Charlotte Whitmore, the only daughter of the Duke of Ashbourne, she grew up surrounded by the grandeur of English aristocracy. Despite the expectations placed upon her, she was known for her warm, compassionate nature and sharp intellect. She had been betrothed to the Duke of Ravenshire, a man of wealth and influence, but her heart was captured by Henry Masterson, a charming American businessman who visited her family’s estate. Defying tradition, she chose love over duty and followed Henry to Ame

'You can take your revenge by this engagement, you know that, right?' Receiving the note from her best friend Saffron, Scar sighed and turned to look outside of the car. Yes, Saffron was right. The Edwards family belonged to veteran aristocrats in this country, which meant that being their daughter-in-law would bring you endless wealth as well as strong power. And it was said that their heir was a young genius who got a god's face. But Scar was not sure whether it was true as she never had a chance to meet him before.

Before me was a middle-aged lady returning from the farm. “She isn't married up till now?” I arched my brows. “Why does her face seem familiar like we had met for once?” She dropped the basin she was holding and bowed to me. “Long live, Supreme Heiress!!” She isn't shocked that I was living, which means she and the hunter knew I was alive. I climbed down the veranda and took a good look at the side of her neck. I found the scar the hunter told me about and then pulled her into a hug.

Her name at least the one they gave her was Marcella DeRossi. Marcella DeRossi, she was the kind of woman people invented legends about an heiress wrapped in old money and mystery, with a lineage that stretched from crumbling villas in Naples to scandal-drenched summers on the French Riviera. Her presence was cinematic: distant, deliberate,

he asked, his voice low and steady. Isabella met his gaze, feeling the burn of determination in her chest. “I was born ready.” --- The drive to the villa was filled with a quiet tension, the landscape outside blurring as they made their way to their destination. Isabella couldn’t help but wonder about the men and women they were about to face, the elite who lived lives intertwined with secrets, power, and corruption. How many of them had blood on their hands, hidden under expensive suits and glamorous facades? The villa came into view, perched on a hill overlooking the city. Its architecture was grand, classical, and imposing—a perfect reflection of the kind of people who held their meetings