The ghost in the machine had a voice, and it echoed in the plush silence of the hotel suite long after the recording had ended. The taste of victory had turned to ash in Isabella’s mouth, replaced by the metallic tang of a new, more profound fear. Gabe was no longer a specter from Alessandro’s past; he was a puppeteer in their present, his fingers on the strings of their most vulnerable secrets.
Alessandro stood frozen by the window, his back to her, his shoulders a rigid line of tension. The morning sun that had felt so hopeful now seemed to highlight the new cracks forming in their fragile peace.
“He’s trying to get inside your head,” Alessandro said, his voice a low, strained rasp. He still hadn’t turned around. “He’s using her… using my mother… to get to you. To make you doubt.”
Isa
