All Chapters of The CEO’s Secret Triplets: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

The green truck stalled once at the baseline crossroads, the engine coughing a thick plume of gray exhaust into the spruce trees before the cylinders caught. Dante didn't curse. He simply let the vehicle roll back three inches into the mud, his large hand heavy on the gearstick, his eyes fixed on the empty passenger seat where her canvas bag had rested an hour ago.​The cab still smelled of her—the faint, sharp scent of cedarwood soap and the damp wool of his flannel shirt. On the dashboard, right above the glove box latch, a single dark hairpin sat in the small plastic well meant for coins. He didn't pick it up. He just left it there, a tiny, curved line of black iron against the green vinyl.​When he finally pulled into the cottage driveway, the gravel was nearly underwater. The kitchen window was dark, but the high, yellow beam of Arthur’s tractor was visible through the trees by the barn, its engine a low, rhythmic thudding that shook the wet mountain air.​Dante didn't take off h

The iron latch under the flour bin didn't give way easily.​"The wood is swollen from the river damp," Bella said, her knuckles scraping against the rough pine as she forced the flat brass key into the keyhole. She was down on her knees in the dark recess of Cynthia’s pantry, the hem of Dante’s green flannel shirt dragging through the white flour dust that coated the old floorboards.​"Hurry, Isabella," Cynthia called from the kitchen threshold. Her silk sleeves were pushed up to her elbows now, her fingers twitching against the varnished doorframe as she checked the small window every three seconds. "The sedan just cleared the hydrant at the corner. They aren't parking. They're idling by the service gate."​Bella didn't look up. She threw her entire weight against the iron poker she had dragged from the parlor, using the rusted tip to pry the secondary floorboard from the left side. The wood gave a loud, dry crack that echoed through the silent townhouse like a gunshot. Beneath it, w

The iron poker hit the chain with a dull, wet clank that sent a single spark bouncing off the black brick. The brass rivet at the third link didn't snap. It sheared halfway through, the metal twisting under the force but holding the iron bars of the gate together.​"Isabella," Cynthia hissed, her fingers digging through the green flannel of Bella's sleeve until her nails touched skin. "The lock on the cellar door just dropped. They're in the passage."​"Stand back from the frame," Bella said.​She didn't look at the cellar exit behind them. She adjusted her grip on the rusted poker, her knuckles chalky with the dried flour dust, and drove the blunt end directly into the fractured rivet. The brass tore with a sharp, metallic rip, and the heavy links slid down the iron bars, piling into the grey puddle at her feet with a heavy splash.​Bella didn't wait for Cynthia to move. She shoved the iron gate outward, its rusted hinges groaning against the brick pillar, and pulled her sister into

The heavy iron crowbar bit into the dry spruce of the window frame with a wet, splintering scream. Dante threw his shoulder against the lever, his bare forearms straining against the wood until the rusted nails in the casing gave way all at once, popping out of the plaster like old teeth.​"Get back, Arthur," Dante growled, his voice cutting through the hollow roar of the creek outside.​The entire lower sash tore loose from its tracks. The moment the pine frame cleared the sill, the mountain creek didn't just seep into the kitchen—it punched through the open square with a grey, churning violence that instantly knocked Sofia’s tin bread box off the counter. The water was thick with black silt, dead hemlock needles, and the crushed bark of the baseline ridge.​"The stove leg is clear," Arthur shouted, his hand shaking as he held the tallow candle three feet above the rush. The small yellow flame danced frantically in the wet draft, casting long, jerky shadows of the floating wood acros

The bronze bolt didn't slide; it sheared through the rotted pine casing with a dry, splintering roar that shook the wire house floorboards.​The front door swung inward, hitting the interior brick wall so hard the frosted glass finally gave way, raining large, jagged triangles across the parquet floor. The cold Manhattan rain swept inside, smelling of grease and soot, instantly wetting the edges of the uncertified papers on Mr. Miller’s desk.​The man stepped over the threshold, his silver bone-handled cane tapping once—click—against the brass sill. His dark oilskin coat didn't make a sound as he advanced, his right hip giving that strange, mechanical roll, but his pale face remained entirely smooth. He didn't look at Cynthia’s gasp or the shattered glass around his boots; his unhurried gaze fixed directly on the black ledger notebooks under the clerk's hands.​"The transmission is dead, Isabella," Mr. Miller whispered, his fingers freezing over the manual key. The thin copper needle