Page 56 of Cinderella and the Daddy

I walk into the bathroom and see it.

The necklace I gave her as an apology for breaking hers. I crack it open with a jeweler's tool and find what I suspected. It’s a transmitter so small it's almost invisible, sophisticated enough to relay real-time video and audio.

It’s not one of mine.

My tracking devices are larger, cruder, and designed for reliability over subtlety. This is something else entirely. It’s professional grade, military spec, the kind of equipment that costs six figures and is extremely difficult to get your hands on.

The water shuts off. Through the frosted glass, I watch her silhouette—unaware, vulnerable, believing she's safe in my home. The necklace sits in my palm like a poisonous snake, its betrayal burning my skin.

The shower door opens. She steps out, water streaming down her body, and freezes when she sees me.

"Luka!"

The gasp of surprise shifts to something else when she reads my expression. I've been told my face looks like death when I'm truly angry. She's seeing it now—the face my enemies see before I end them.

I force myself to reach for the towel, to hand it to her with steady hands when every instinct screams to break something. To rage. To demand answers with violence until the truth bleeds out.

She wraps herself quickly, eyes never leaving mine. Smart girl. She knows something's very wrong.

"Are you working for him?" The question tears from my throat, raw and jagged. "Look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. Are you still working for Charles?"

Because if she lies to me now, if I see even a flicker of deception in those blue eyes I've grown to trust, I'll have to do something that will destroy what's left of my soul.

Cindy looks at me with shock, clearly startled by the violence in my voice. "What?"

“Are you working for your father? Charles. Are you still in fucking contact with him?!”

She wraps the towel around herself. “No! Why would you think that? Luka—I haven’t seen him since you dragged me out of there. I called him, but only that once.”

“Who touched you?”

She frowns. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I might be naive. Maybe I’m being played, but I believe she’s innocent in this.

I hold up the necklace. "There’s a camera in your necklace. Not one of mine. So, I'll ask again—who touched you?"

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by fear. Not fear of me, but fear of the implications. Because if someone else has been tracking her movements, listening to our conversations, and watching our most intimate moments, then our security has been compromised in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

"I don't know," she whispers. "Luka, I swear I don't know."

But even as she says it, I can see her mind working, replaying every interaction, every moment when a stranger might have gotten close enough to plant surveillance equipment.

“Smash it!” She pulls the towel tighter around her.

In my rage, I forgot the damn thing is a live feed.

They watched her. I put the necklace on the counter and smash it with the heel of my palm.

“Out,” I point to the bedroom.

“Luka, I swear?—”

“Go. Now.”

16

CINDY