BILLIONAIRE’S STOLEN HEIRESS

Silence pressed in like a living thing. It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t soft. It gnawed at me, loud in its emptiness, until every shallow breath felt too loud against it. The Monroe estate,our once-proud crown jewel,wasn’t just quiet. It was rotting. The ceilings sagged with hairline cracks. Dust lay thick across the carved banisters, muffling their old shine. Curtains hung limp and gray where sunlight used to stream, and the marble floors beneath my bare feet were chipped and bitterly cold. Every creak of the boards echoed back like the house itself was mocking me. Once, this place had been alive. Lit with music, echoing with my father’s booming laugh, ringing with guests who toasted to art, history, and our name. Now? It was a carcass. I pushed open the library doors. The hinges groaned like the house itself resented the effort. Inside, my father sat collapsed into the leather chair that had once belonged to his father. The chair was cracked and tired, much like him. His head bowed, and shoulders slouched. The scotch bottle at his elbow sweated onto the wood, the amber liquid inside was barely touched. He hadn’t poured himself a glass yet. He didn’t need to. The bottle was enough—an anchor, a silent threat. I lingered in the doorway, unwilling to cross the room. The man I saw wasn’t the father I remembered. He used to carry me on his shoulders until my laughter spilled through the gardens. He used to tell me stories about every painting on our walls, his eyes alight with pride. That man had vanished. What sat before me now was hollow. “You’re quiet,” he rasped at last, his voice scraping out of his throat like gravel. “Too quiet. That never meant good news, Bella.” I swallowed hard. My arms crossed, a shield against words I couldn’t form. I managed a shrug. Because what was there to say? That I hated this version of him? That I hated myself for not being able to stop him from crumbling? That I hated the house for holding on to memories we could never bring back? He pinched his temples, eyes shutting tight. “The creditors are circling. They don’t wait. They don’t forgive. The auction will strip us bare.” His breath came ragged, like the words themselves were knives. “And that… that isn’t even the worst part.” My pulse jumped. “Worse than losing everything?” His eyes opened, and for a moment, for a fleeting heartbeat, I saw the man he used to be. Strong. Fierce. The protector. The father who had lifted me high, untouchable. His voice shook when he answered. “Worse is losing our name. Watching Monroe handed over to people who don’t care. They don’t see history, Bella. They see dollars. They see land to flip, antiques to sell. Our legacy becomes their profit.” I bit down on my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I nodded because I understood, but my chest burned anyway. Understanding didn’t make it easier to breathe. I turned before he could see my face c***k and walked the hallway to the only room that hadn’t betrayed me. The studio. The air here was different. Still, but alive. Dust floated in narrow beams of sunlight that forced their way through grimy windows. The worktable was cluttered with sketches,half-finished, smudged, and imperfect. I touched the charcoal lines, letting the black powder stain my fingertips. The curves and shadows told the truth better than I could. They were flawed, but they were mine. Here, I could breathe but the silence never lasted. Reality always intruded. Every threatening letter, every phone call from a banker with clipped patience, every warning of auction dates, all echoed in my head. Time wasn’t slowing. It was closing in. A knock slammed against the front door. Hard. Sharp.Not polite. Not hesitant. Final. Dad cursed under his breath and pushed up from the chair. His movements were stiff, but he didn’t falter. I followed him, though my legs felt leaden. The hall stretched longer than usual, shadows swallowing the light as if the house already knew who waited on the other side. The door swung open.And the air shifted instantly.The man standing there wasn’t simply a guest. He was a presence. Tall, posture perfect. His suit cut with a precision that screamed power without needing to say a word. His gray eyes,cold, exact was locked on us. He didn’t just look at you. He measured you. Judged you. Decided what you were worth before you could speak. Julian Devereux. I knew his name before he spoke it. Everyone did. Whispers carried it through papers and business journals, attaching it to words like ruthless, relentless, untouchable. Now he stood here, on our doorstep, like fate had summoned him to watch us break. “Mr. Monroe.” His voice was calm. Smooth. Velvet pulled tight over steel. “We need to discuss your financial situation.” My father’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple jerking. “You… you’ve read the letters?” Julian’s lips curved, not a smile but something sharper. “I’ve read everything. And I have a solution.” His eyes flickered, unreadable. “But solutions come with cost.” The word cracked through me. Cost. It had been the shadow haunting every corner of this house. Dad’s voice trembled. “What… cost?” Julian’s gaze shifted. Slowly. Purposefully. It landed on me and stayed there. My breath caught. “Arabella Monroe,” he said. My full name rolled off his tongue like he was already signing papers with it. “Your daughter’s hand in marriage. In return, the debts are erased. The estate remains yours.” The air left my lungs in a rush. My sketchbook slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor, the sound small but final. “You—” My voice broke. “You want me? As… as payment?” Julian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “Not payment. Necessary.” Something inside me cracked wide open. Anger. Panic. Disbelief. All tangled and raw. I wanted to scream until the walls caved. I wanted to laugh because surely this was madness. I wanted to break something, anything, just to prove I was still real. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Dad’s hand landed on my shoulder. His grip trembled. “Bella… it’s the only way.” I turned, wide-eyed, begging silently for him to take it back. To say he didn’t mean it. But his face told me everything. He was desperate. Beaten. And this was the only option left. Julian stepped forward without hesitation. Without invitation. His presence devoured the foyer, pressing the air thin. “I honor my word,” he said softly. Danger threaded through every syllable. “But I don’t tolerate mistakes. I don’t tolerate emotion. Do you understand?” My body betrayed me. I nodded. My voice was a whisper. “I understand.” And just like that, the last fragile threads of my childhood unraveled. I wasn’t afraid of losing the house anymore. Or the name. Or the history. I was afraid of losing myself. Julian’s laugh cut through the silence,low, short, edged with something that wasn’t amusement. He let his eyes roam the cracked ceiling, the faded walls, as if measuring how long it would take to replace them all. His mouth tilted. “Good. Then we’ll begin. There’s a great deal to handle… and very little time.” He turned, already moving toward the library. My father followed. I stood rooted to the spot for a second too long, my legs heavy, my pulse frantic. But in the end, I moved. Because I had no choice. Each step felt like walking deeper into a cage. And with every breath, I knew: nothing in my life would ever belong to me again.