The CEO's Undercover Heiress のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

​Isabella POV​The air in the Vane Diamond Gala smells like vintage champagne and expensive lies. I adjust my silk Dior gown. The two million dollar sapphire resting against my throat feels like a lead weight.​I am looking for Julian. I want to tell him my father agreed to fund his tech venture. I want to see him smile.​I find him on the terrace. He is not alone. He is whispering to a woman in a red dress. I stop behind a marble pillar. My heart hitches.​The sapphire? Julian's voice is a sharp blade. It is a dog collar. A very expensive one. I will wear it until the wedding. Once the Vane billions are in my account I am sending the Ice Queen to a villa in Switzerland. I will never look back.​The woman giggles. You do not love her?​Julian snorts. I can hear the ice in his tone. Love Isabella? She is a calculator in a dress. Cold. Boring. She thinks her legacy matters. Without her last name she is absolutely nothing.​I stand frozen. My heart does not break. It turns into a diamond

​Isabella POV​I do not sleep. I spend the night staring at the red dress hanging in the closet. It is a crimson shadow watching me.​How does Liam know?​I have been careful. I burned my passport. I hacked my own digital footprint into a mess of dead links and corrupted files. I am wearing a thrift-store blazer and glasses that give me a headache.​Yet, when Liam looks at me, he doesn't see a clumsy intern. He looks through the layers of "Bella Smith" as if they are made of glass.​I reach for my burner phone. I check the news one last time. My father has doubled the reward. Julian is quoted in a tabloid saying he is "devastated by the loss of his soulmate."​I almost throw the phone against the marble wall. Devastated? He was picking out jewelry for his mistress while I was still in the building.​I realize then why Liam knows. It isn't just the math. It is the anger. A girl from a community college would be grateful for this job. She would be subservient. But I look at Liam with th

​Isabella POV​The air in the safe house has turned from cedar-scented comfort to a tomb-like chill. I am frozen, my hand still clutching the velvet box that held the sapphire.​Catherine Sterling is slumped in her chair. Her eyes are closed, her chest rising and falling in the shallow rhythm of a forced sleep. The silver cane she leaned on has fallen to the rug with a dull thud.​The man standing over her is a ghost.​I’ve seen his face in the oil paintings at the Vane estate—portraits of the "founders" and their associates. This is Silas Sterling. Liam’s uncle. The man my father claimed had died in a tragic boating accident a decade ago. But the man in front of me isn't a memory. He is a tall, skeletal figure with eyes that look like burnt-out coals.​"You have your mother’s flair for the dramatic, Isabella," Silas says. His voice sounds like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "That broadcast was a bold move. A suicidal one, but bold."​"What did you do to her?" I whisper, gestu

Isabella POV​The gas is a sweet, cloying fog. It smells like rotting lilies. I know this scent. It is a high-end incapacitant. My lungs burn. I pull my silk sleeve over my mouth.​Julian speaks through the vents. His voice sounds thin and manic.​"Give me the offshore codes. Or we all sleep here forever."​I look at Eleanor. My mother leans against the bedframe. Her fingers twitch around the pistol. She looks at me. I see her pride. She refuses to fall. She thinks she owns the air in this room.​"You will get nothing," she rasps at the ceiling.​I drop to the floor. The air is thinner near the marble. My heart beats against my ribs. I am afraid. I am a Vane. We hide fear behind math. I count the seconds between my breaths.​The door stays sealed.​A loud thud echoes from the balcony. The metal shutters groan. They rip outward. A shadow enters the room through the smoke.​Liam.​He wears a tactical respirator. He looks at me. He does not look at my mother. He moves with purpose. He is

Liam POV​The coordinates do not lead to a sci-fi base. They lead to a decommissioned lighthouse on a private island off the coast of Maine. It is a place of salt, rotting wood, and cold stone. It is a place for a quiet murder, not a global takeover.​I push the boat toward the rocky shore. The waves hit the hull with a heavy thud. The engine hums. My heart is a faster rhythm.​Eleanor has my mother. My mother is a woman who loves gardens and old books. She does not belong in this damp, gray hell.​"Felix," I say into my phone. "Stay on the line. If I do not check in every ten minutes, send the police to Arthur Vane’s private dock. Tell them everything."​"Liam, be careful," Felix says. "Eleanor is desperate. Desperate people do not care about the rules."​I look at Isabella. She wears a heavy wool coat. She looks at the lighthouse. Her face is a mask of stone. She is not afraid of the dark. She is afraid of the woman waiting in it.​"We go in through the cellar," Isabella says. "My f