The Stolen Heiress Novels & Stories

He was Cyrus Richmond, the heir of a top-tier elite family in the capital circle and the second-highest spender on our server. As soon as she noticed me enter, Stacy sprang up from her seat. She pointed straight at me and cried out in injustice, "Heather! You shameless account thief, you finally dared to show up!" The room fell into immediate silence. All four men turned their attention to me at once. Lewis, Shadowfang, and Reviver also rose to their feet, instinctively positioning themselves as though to protect me. Upon seeing this, Stacy's tears spilled over like broken pearls. "Lewis, Shadowfang, Reviver, don't believe her! She's not Moonwalker at all. She's my roommate. With the backing

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

“She is the only surviving heir…” My heart began to pound. “…to the Stuart family.” The name hit like a shockwave. “No,” I whispered. Grandfather’s voice remained steady. “Their heir and his daughter were reported dead sixteen years ago.” “But they weren’t.” A pause. Heavy. “The Beckers had her the entire time.” Silence. The world shifted. Again. This wasn’t just abuse anymore. This was theft. A stolen identity. A stolen legacy. A stolen life. And suddenly—

Except Lorenzo wasn’t watching the tourists. He was watching one girl. On the third screen, a young woman with long black hair stepped out of a café, carrying a small brown bag. She wore a simple dress and large sunglasses. She moved with elegance, with calm confidence — unaware she was being watched. Isadora Sinclair. The stolen heiress. The girl who lived a life that was never hers, yet should have belonged to him.

"She went out and stole something again last night. I think she just came back not long ago, so perhaps she’s fallen asleep." Woody was not kidding when he claimed that Sherese had gone out and stolen something; she had indeed done so. As for Hestia, she only got to know Sherese because she had stolen something from the Deschamps residence back then. She was a famous thief who would steal anything as long as the pay was right. Hestia was able to apprehend her only because of a coincidence. Although Sherese was good at stealing things, she was no match for Hestia.

"The Golds are maids? Does that even make any sense to you?" "You should know, young mistress, that I have been searching for you for years. So I have proof. Enough of it. They thought they'd taken everything you and your parents owned. But what they stole was only just a percentage of your real wealth. I've been searching for you to reclaim your throne as the last heiress of the Delacroix."

"Yesterday you said I was absent, abusing expenses, and using company resources for myself. If all those resources belonged to the company, then you should be fine without me." At last she understood. She had stolen my seat because she thought there was gold under the chair. She didn’t realize the gold had never been under the chair. It had been behind me. Julian rubbed his eyes like a man trying to wake from an expensive nightmare. "What do you want?"

“I didn’t realize it would bring shame. For that, I apologize.” “ I’ve never even spoken to you! I didn’t even know you exist!”Alana’s voice cracked, her knees were giving out. Her strength slowly fading away from the shit that was unfolding. A second man behind him stepped forward and opened a polished wooden box. Inside was a rattle. Silver , Inlaid with what looked like small aquamarines. “A gift,” Thorne said. “My child will have a place of honor in Glimmering Hollow.” Alana’s knees buckled slightly as her body swayed. She caught herself, blinking rapidly. “None of this happened. They’re making it up. I swear to the moon, they’re lying!”

Eilís stepped into her space, forcing her to look up at him. “You thought to lay your hands on her in the middle of my father’s hall? To accuse her of theft like a common cutpurse?” “It is a sapphire, Your Highness,” a voice called out from the crowd, emboldened by the safety of numbers. My fist tightened. What reason would I have stolen a sapphire when I had dozens embroidered into my wedding gown? “A family heirloom,” another whispered, the sound carrying easily in the hushed hall. “And the humans are desperate. Who could blame her for wanting something to take back to that crumbling estate?”

A voiceover filled the room — crisp, cold, the tone of a news anchor: “Former socialite Genevieve Hale, also known as Genevieve Lancaster, accused of arson, embezzlement, and attempted murder, was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison after the Rosehill Orphanage fire left multiple casualties—” Gasps rippled through the ballroom. Another clip. Me — screaming behind bars, my hair tangled, my face a mask of rage. Then another — grainy footage of me being dragged into a police car. “After a daring escape three years ago, Hale remains one of France’s most wanted fugitives…” “No,” I whispered. The words caught in my throat as the next headline blazed across the massive screen: “Rose de Montcla