The penthouse felt like a crime scene. Security personnel moved through our home with the clinical efficiency of investigators, checking every room, every window, and every possible entry point for signs of intrusion. I sat in the living room with Eddie cradled against my chest, trying not to think about the fact that someone had been close enough to photograph my sleeping son.
“No signs of forced entry,” Marcus Chen, our head of security, reported with the grim professionalism that came with thirty years of protecting people who'd made powerful enemies. “But we found this."
He held up a small device that looked like a button from an expensive suit. Audio surveillance equipment. Military grade, untraceable. It was embedded in the upholstery of the chair in your study."
Sterling's face w
