The masked heiress Novels & Stories

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.

Hera looked at the black mask and turned her gaze to Jessy, "So, we have to wear these masks?" "Yes, as per the instructions. It seems this is a party for her daughter, who has just been accepted into a prestigious university in America," Jessy replied, holding her own white mask. Hera nodded in understanding, still holding her black mask, "Awesome. Alright, let’s go." *** During the journey, Jessy shared many stories, especially about her family, who always pressured her to take over her father's company. However, Jessy didn't like it; she chose to work part-time, allowing her more free time to relax.

I walked out of the room, and he looked displeased at my choice of dress, which is a black backless dinner gown with a slit cut that stopped in my mid-thigh, but I careless about his opinion. “Let's go.” He breathed, not saying a thing anymore, and he handed me a mask. That's the theme of the gala. It's a masquerade party, and I loved the theme because it would be perfect to sneak out to meet the private investigator I planned to meet. We got to the venue, and in no time guests started trooping honoring the theme of the party. A celebration mood filled the hall as people socialized with each other. My uncle, and I walked towards a group of women, who are the socialites and good with business

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.

"He won't know. I promise you, he won't know." She was wrong about that, though neither of them could have known it yet, sitting in a studio that smelled like glue and turpentine with four hours left on the clock. The dress arrived by courier at six, midnight blue silk that had clearly been altered to someone's exact measurements and happened, infuriatingly, to be Wren's. She stood in front of the studio's single cracked mirror and watched a woman she didn't recognize take shape in the reflection not Isabella, not herself, someone constructed for one night out of borrowed silk and a story she'd agreed to without asking enough questions.

“You’re embracing both?” “Yes.” My voice was steel now. “Isabella is the name I clung to when the world thought I was gone. She is resilient, proof that I endured what was meant to kill me. But Marisol—Marisol is the truth. She is the inheritance, the bloodline, the history they tried to bury in ash. I can’t be whole if I cut her out. I am both. Survivor and heiress. Scar and crown.” Mia leaned against the table, studying me as though searching for cracks. “Isa, do you realize what this means? If you take that name publicly, you’ll be painting a target on your back. Your uncle—”

I held back my tears and shouted defiantly, "Skyrise Group belongs to Grandma. I'm the real heiress of the company!" Bang! Before I could catch my breath, Bobby smashed my head against the glass wall again. He continued shouting furiously. "Cindy, quit dreaming. I already gave Skyrise Group to Tina as her wedding gift last year. Whoever marries her will inherit the company!" His words sent a wave of shock through the entire crowd. Everyone's eyes lit up as they stared at Tina. At that moment, a commanding voice came from behind me. "Bobby, I dare you to say that again. Who did you just claim is the heiress of Skyrise Group?"

The halls of Moonspire Castle were ablaze with light, golden chandeliers scattering their glow across a sea of silk and jewels. Music poured from the vaulted ceilings — strings and flutes weaving together a melody both haunting and mesmerizing. Serenya stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, hidden behind a silvered mask that curved like the crescent moon. Every noble, duke, and emissary swirled before her in brilliant colors, yet she felt like an intruder at her own stage. No one here knew who she truly was — the lost heiress of Vale, the girl raised in shadows. Tonight, she was only another masked lady at the duke’s elaborate masquerade.

The orchestra suddenly transitioned into an ethereal melody as all eyes turned to the top of the grand staircase. Everyone let out a deep breath as Elara’s figure finally emerged, followed by Eliott, Katherine, and Richard. She looked like a vision from a dream, draped in her gorgeous silk gown that caught the light of the crystal chandeliers with every step she took. Nobody was able to see her face as a delicate, and semi transparent lace mask like veil was hiding her features except her eyes, to maintain the mystery of the Hale heiress, only revealing her beauty eyes.

I smooth out the silk of my gown and put my mask on, a black velvet masquerade mask with pretty feathers and tiny, glittering gems stitched along its edges. Tonight, we're attending Sabrina's masquerade birthday gala at the Windsor Estate in the Upper East Side. Lucas is throwing what is probably the grandest birthday party this year that New York city has witnessed in decades. My stylist, Ruese, whom I owe an endless thanks for turning me into a work of art, hands me a pair of chandelier earrings. I put them on, slip on my gold stilettos and grab my clutch. “The limo is ready, ma'am,” Max announces, his hand extended, helping me with my faux fur before leading me out.