All Chapters of The CEO’s Secret Triplets: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

​The garden at the Blackwood estate was a masterpiece of cold, manicured geometry. Even in the damp chill of a February morning, the boxwood hedges were trimmed to precise right angles, and the stone paths were swept clean of every stray leaf. It was a place designed for observation, not for comfort. Dante stood at the edge of the glass-walled conservatory, watching as two housemen moved a long, mahogany table onto the terrace.​Beside him, Bella was a statue in ivory wool. She hadn't spoken since they had left the primary suite. The shared night—the weight of her forehead against his collarbone, the frantic grip of her hands on his arms—felt like a ghost trailing behind them, invisible but heavy. Every time their shoulders brushed as they walked toward the terrace, Dante felt a jolt of awareness that he had to bury under a mask of executive indifference.​"She’s moving fast," Bella said, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of a lawnmower. She was staring at the table, where

The dining room was a storm of voices, a cacophony of legal jargon and desperate pivots, but Dante heard none of it. He watched the man in the dark suit—the Matriarch’s personal counsel—hand a document to Bella. It was the "Fitness Inquest" notice, a piece of paper that carried the weight of a death sentence for their new, fragile equilibrium. Beside it, the directive to move the triplets to London sat like a cold blade on the mahogany table.​Bella didn’t take the paper. She didn't even look at the counsel. She stayed focused on Evelyn, her expression so detached it was terrifying.​"The children aren't going to London, Evelyn," Dante said, his voice cutting through the noise like a serrated edge. He stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. He didn't move toward the lawyer; he moved toward Bella. He needed to be close enough to feel the heat radiating off her, a grounding force in a room that had lost its center.​"The London townhouse is a secure facility, Dante," Eve

The drive to London was a funeral procession in high-gloss black. Evelyn had insisted on the motorcade, a display of power that felt more like a prisoner transport than a family relocation. Dante sat in the back of the lead sedan, his eyes fixed on the rain-streaked window as the city lights began to blur into long, neon ribbons. Bella was beside him, her hands folded in her lap, her face a mask of such absolute stillness that he found himself checking the reflection in the glass just to ensure she was still breathing.They hadn't spoken since the porch. There was nothing left to say in the presence of the Matriarch’s security detail. The board’s decision to freeze the shares was a tactical decapitation; without their voting power, they were no longer the masters of the house. They were guests of the estate, subject to the whims of a woman who viewed their children as the final pieces of a lifelong chess game.When the car pulled up to the curb of the Belgravia townhouse, the iron gat

The solarium was a glass-domed cage on the top floor of the townhouse, designed to capture the rare London sun, but today it only served to magnify the grey, oppressive morning. Dante stood by a pedestal holding a marble bust of some long-dead Blackwood patriarch, his hand resting on the cold stone. The air was thick with the scent of forced lilies and expensive coffee.​Evelyn was already seated, her tablet propped against a silver cream pitcher. Beside her sat the Governance Officer, a man named Halloway who looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.​"An anonymous tip," Dante said, his voice flat. He didn't sit down. "That’s a convenient turn of phrase, Mother. It sounds more like you’ve been monitoring my private communication with Marcus."​"Monitoring is a harsh word, Dante," Evelyn replied without looking up. "I prefer to think of it as safeguarding the integrity of the audit. If you were attempting to access secondary servers, it would suggest you have something to hide

The blue glow of the server room felt like a cold, digital morgue. Dante stared at the flickering text on the screen, the initials E.B. burning into his retinas. The kiss they had just shared was still a phantom heat on his lips, but the air in the room had turned to ice.​"Edward Blackwood," Bella repeated, her voice sounding small against the hum of the cooling fans. She stepped back from him, her hand going to her throat as if to check for a pulse. "Dante, you were at the funeral. I was there. We saw the casket."​"Ten years," Dante muttered. He leaned back into the terminal, his fingers flying across the keys in a desperate race against the wiping progress bar. "The trust was restructured after his heart attack. Silas handled the probate. My mother took the seat. Everything was finalized."​"Then how is he initiating a remote wipe?"​"It’s a dead man’s switch," Dante said, his voice a low, jagged rasp. "A set of protocols programmed to trigger if a specific level of encryption is