The listening device was a tiny, obsolete piece of plastic and wire, but it screamed louder than Charles Vanderbilt’s rage ever could. Elara held it in a trembling palm, back in the cottage’s stark safety, the victory of the boardroom turning to dust in her mouth.
“How long?” Her voice was a ghost of itself.
Kaelan stood at the glass wall, his back to her, shoulders rigid. “The model is at least fifteen years old. Possibly older.”
Fifteen years. It could have been planted when she first moved in with Liam. Or it could have been there since before, listening to other tenants, other lives. The not-knowing was a poison. Had Charles heard her laugh with Liam? Heard her vulnerable, late-night fears? Heard the moment she fell in love?
Or had he heard nothing, and the bug was just a symbol of
