บททั้งหมดของ The CEO's Undercover Heiress : บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

POV: Liam​The glass in my office didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it felt like a lens, magnifying the chaos of the world below. Outside the secure medical wing of the Sterling-Vane private clinic, the press storm had escalated from a drizzle to a hurricane. News vans with satellite dishes like upturned umbrellas lined the perimeter, their flashes strobing against the grey Manhattan morning. They were waiting for a word, a sign, a confirmation that the "Girl with the Flatline" had survived the gala collapse—or that she had finally succumbed to her own synthetic heart.​"The narrative is spinning out of control, Liam," Marcus Thorne said, pacing the length of the rug. He looked better than I did, having actually slept in the forty-eight hours since Isabella woke up, but his jaw was set in that familiar line of corporate anxiety. "The hashtag #TheVaneEffect has been replaced by #JusticeForIsabella. People think she’s a martyr. They think you and Eleanor conspired to kill her on that

POV: Isabella​The new room was smaller, sterile in a way that felt aggressive. The white walls didn’t just reflect light; they seemed to vibrate with it. I sat in a high-backed armchair, my legs draped with a cashmere throw that felt like lead. Sarah Jenkins—the woman who had been Liam’s shadow, his tactical brain, and now my keeper—stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the Manhattan skyline.​“The transfer of oversight is a formality, Isabella,” Sarah said. She didn't turn around. “The DOJ required a lead who wasn’t embroiled in the primary conflict of interest. As Interim CEO, I am your legal shield.”​“A shield or a cage?” I asked. My voice was stronger today, but the burning in my chest—the phantom itch of the marrow-shunt—remained a constant reminder of the tether. “Liam said you were his friend.”​Sarah finally turned. Her expression was polished, professional, and entirely devoid of the warmth I’d seen her offer Liam in the early days of the merger. “I am a realist

​POV: Isabella​The silence of the medical suite was no longer the silence of recovery; it was the silence of a vacuum. In the forty-eight hours since my statement on the clinic steps, the world had rushed in to fill the space I’d cleared, and then, just as quickly, it had retreated, leaving me stranded on an island of my own making.​I sat in the armchair, the shadows of the Manhattan skyline lengthening across the floor. My phone, which had been a frantic instrument of pings and vibrations for days, had gone eerily still. I picked it up, scrolling through the contact list that had once been my social and professional lifeline.​I tapped on Sarah’s name first. The call didn't even ring. “The number you have reached is no longer in service.” She hadn't just taken the CEO’s chair; she had cauterized the wound of our friendship. She was no longer Sarah, the woman who had shared cocktails and secrets with me; she was Jenkins, the corporate custodian.​I tried Chloe next. We had been frie

POV: IsabellaThe tablet in my lap was the only source of light in the darkened medical suite. It felt heavy, not with the weight of the hardware, but with the explosive potential of the files I had just decrypted. The Vane estate was a fortress of secrets, but Eleanor had forgotten that a fortress is only as strong as its foundation. I had spent years watching her build it; I knew exactly where the cracks were."You haven't touched your dinner," Liam said from the doorway. He didn't come in immediately. He stayed in the threshold, a shadow against the dim fluorescent glow of the hallway. "The nurses said you haven't spoken to anyone since the audit results came back.""I don't have much to say to them, Liam," I said. I didn't look up from the screen. "They’re paid to monitor my vitals, not my thoughts. Besides, speaking is how people get caught. I’d rather act."Liam stepped into the room, the door hissing shut behind him. He looked like he had been living in his suit for a week. The

POV: IsabellaThe iron gates of the Vane estate didn't sound like a homecoming; they sounded like a deadbolt sliding into place.I sat in the back of the heavy sedan, my hands folded tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking. Arthur sat beside me, his scent—a mix of expensive sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of nervous sweat—filling the cramped space. He hadn't spoken since we left the clinic. He just stared out the tinted window, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, irritating beat against the leather armrest."You look pale, Isabella," Arthur said finally, his voice lacking its usual arrogant edge. "The cameras won't like the shadows under your eyes. We’ll have the stylists look at you before the feed goes live.""The cameras?" I asked, my voice sounding brittle even to my own ears. "Is that why you pulled me out of the clinic? For a photo op?""For a rescue," Arthur corrected, turning to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, the bravado of the gala replaced by a frantic, cornere