All Chapters of The CEO's Undercover Heiress : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

​POV: Isabella​The air in the Hamptons was salt-heavy and smelled of expensive perfume, sea spray, and the faint, metallic scent of a brewing storm. The Vane estate sat atop the bluffs like a sprawling, white-marble fortress, illuminated by a thousand fairy lights that twinkled with a false, festive cheer. From the air, it must have looked like a dream; from the tarmac of the private landing strip, it felt like a funeral.​Liam stood at the foot of the aircraft stairs, his tuxedo perfect, his face a mask of cold, unyielding granite. He didn't look like the man who had stood in the rain outside the bunker. He didn't look like the man who had whispered about saving me. He looked like the CEO of a company that had finally regained control of a runaway asset.​"Liam?" I asked, my voice trembling as I stepped off the plane. The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.​"Don't speak," he said. The words were flat, devoid of the warmth I had spent a lifetime memorizing. He did

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 "The hashtag #TheVaneEffect has been replaced by #JusticeForIsabella.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