The masked heiress Novels & Stories

I was getting ready to bring my girlfriend home to meet my mother when Rosalind Whitehall suddenly went silent. I was starting to panic when a notification popped up on my phone. It was a wedding livestream from a couple with 1,000,000 followers. "Looking back, the laughter and joy of that wedding celebration made it the happiest moment of my life. Mr. Grosvenor, I'm counting on you for the rest of my life." "We promised that once we hit 1,000,000 followers, the groom would finally show his face. A promise is a promise." In the video, Rosalind stood in a wedding dress and gently exchanged rings with a man. Our mutual friends flooded the comments. [Five years, and we finally got to watc

In her place, the secret heiress to Vane Holdings, one of the world's most powerful private conglomerates, had finally woken up. ​Walking into my massive walk-in closet, I bypassed the modest, subdued clothing I had worn to blend into the background of the Blackwood estate. Instead, I reached for a sharp, tailored crimson suit. I dressed with meticulous care, pulling my hair back into a sleek, unforgiving style. When I looked in the mirror, the modest orphan Lysander thought he had married was completely gone. I looked like my grandfather. I looked like a Vane. ​When I descended the grand sweeping staircase of the estate, Henri bowed his head in silent approval, his eyes gleaming with recogn

“Hardly. I came to remind you that you don’t own this space; you don’t own this city. Tonight, the spotlight isn’t just yours.” With that, I turned my gaze to Gabriella, who took a small step back, observing me with equal parts disdain and intrigue. “Congratulations on your new partnership,” I said, my openness a strategic mask for the confidence bubbling beneath. “Though we all know you’re merely a pawn in Andre’s elaborate chess game.” Gasps spread through the attendees at my audacity, their eyes darting between the three of us, hungry for the unfolding drama. Gabriella lifted her chin, an unmistakable defiance glimmering in her icy gaze. “And you must be the runaway heiress who’s chosen t

"I know, right? That mistress is shameless. I also heard that woman talking about overshadowing the McAuley heiress and embarrassing her in public." Jade's heart lurched. Someone was planning to target Tiffany at her birthday party. The salesperson continued to speak since Jade seemed invested in the topic. "If you ask me, that mistress is just a crow and will always be one. Everyone knows that the McAuley heiress is a true gem." Jade took off the shoes and told the salesperson, "Pack these shoes for me too." "Sure thing." The salesperson, who was thrilled to make another sale while she chatted, became even more attentive to Jade. "Miss, let me get you a membership card for our store. You'll

THE HEIR'S MASK Chapter 1 Expensive perfume mingled with the faint metallic scent of power. Steve Vanderbilt stood at the center of it all. Wealth felt like a prison, he often thought. At twenty-seven, he was everything New York’s elite wanted to be. His tailored black Tom Ford suit gave him commanding presence without effort. A practiced smile played on his lips as he nodded at senators and tech moguls, one arm loosely wrapped around Lila Monroe’s slim waist.

“Bro, remember the Voice of the Night we saw yesterday? Guess whose car that was?” Hindi man lang siya nilingon ni Gabe. “Definitely not yours.” “Exactly! It’s Luna’s the Valencia heiress herself!” Saglit na natahimik si Gabe. Naalala niya ang maliit na batang babaeng minsang naghatid kay Miguel noon sa eskwela, maliit, masayahin, at palaging may dala-dalang candy. Ngayon, nineteen na, confident, successful, at muli nilang makakasama.

He cannot help but look at her transfixed and unconsciously blurted out, "You are ethereal!!" Both he and Nezeira was shocked. Yihan was taken aback and embarrassed and Nezeira felt a jab in her heart. The tone was something she heard four hundred years ago. It was too familiar to miss. Yihan awkward by his own babbling forgot the purpose of taunting Nezeira out of anger and left hurriedly. Nezeira stood watching him leave. Suddenly she remembered that there is a masquerade ball tonight. Nezeira has been away from all the womanly things for about four hundred years now. So she dressed up in her latex pants, high heel boots, and a high neck body hugging top with a black leather jacket. Nothin

She would shatter his delusions completely and leave him with no reason to pursue her anymore! She would never return to that hell! Never! Marisol got up and walked to the walk-in closet, rummaging through the pile of clothes she'd scattered earlier to find a mask. It was one of the masks Emilia had sent over before the masquerade ball. She had told her to choose whichever she liked. "The ball's already over. What do you need that for?" Alinta followed. "Does it look good?" Marisol picked up a white cat half-mask, held it over the upper half of her face, and looked up at Alinta.

Plush velvet chairs awaited them, each one marked by a simple card embossed with the name of a city. Martha—Crescenta—found hers midway down the table. The mask she had been given earlier matched her dress exactly: black lace embroidered with faint gold threads, mysterious yet elegant. Around her, the other women had also been paired to perfection, their masks seemingly designed for them alone, accentuating their gowns, their jewels, their carefully sculpted hair. When they were all seated, the masked figure at the head of the table raised a gloved hand. Silence fell instantly. Another attendant moved to the side of the room, carrying a black velvet box. He opened it slowly, deliberately, re

Her dress changed, her jewelry shimmered but the air around her never softened. It was deliberate, chosen. She had crafted her presence with surgical precision: a woman dripping in mystery, with high cheekbones and higher standards. Her back straight, her legs crossed, her glass always half full as if to suggest she was never waiting for a refill… never waiting for anyone, she was known only as Marcella now. Marcella DeRossi, orphaned heiress, old money, cold beauty. A ghost of a family legacy tied to estates in Naples and whispers in Monaco. She played the part like it was written in her blood. Men stared, some talked but none dared to come close.