My phone buzzes again. Lucien:My office. Now.
I save the footage—flagged under her name, timestamped, backed up to the secure server—and head upstairs. The transition from the control center to The Dominion proper is always jarring. Down below, everything is function and efficiency. Up here, everything is performance. The lighting shifts from institutional blue-white to amber warmth. The concrete gives way to hardwood and marble. The machine becomes a stage.
Lucien's office is on the third floor, accessible only by private elevator. The door is already open when I arrive. He's standing at the window that overlooks the main floor, hands in his pockets, watching his empire conduct business. From this height, the members look like pieces on a board—carefully positioned, moving in patterns he's designed.
"Come in, Jax." He doesn't turn around. "Tell me what you saw."
I step inside. The office is exactly what you'd expect from a man like Lucien: antique desk, first-edition books lining one wall, art that's probably worth more than the building.But there's also surveillance equipment built into the furniture, cameras hidden in the crown moulding, panic buttons disguised as light switches. Even here, in his private space, he's watching and being watched.
"She was careful," I say. "Aware of her surroundings. Positioned herself defensively in the booth—back to the wall, clear sightlines to exits. Minimal interaction with staff. No eye contact with other patrons."
"Defensive." Lucien turns from the window. "From what?"
"Everything. Everyone. She moved like someone expecting threats."
"Interesting." He crosses to his desk, pours two glasses of scotch from a decanter that probably costs more than my monthly salary. Hands me one even though I didn't ask for it. "Did she seem comfortable?"
I think about the way she held herself. The perfect posture. The controlled sips of wine. The hands that never fidgeted but never fully relaxed either.
"No," I say. "She seemed like she was performing comfort."
Lucien smiles. "That's what I thought too. I watched from the floor. She's good at the performance—most people would miss it. But you see these things, don't you? The space between what people show and what they hide."
"It's what you pay me for."
"I pay you for discretion and competence. The insight is a bonus." He drinks his scotch, studying me over the rim of the glass. "She'll be back. I made sure of that."
"How?"
"I sent a follow-up message. A personal invitation to next week's exhibition. Lucien Armitage doesn't invite people to things they can refuse." He sets down his glass with a soft click against the wood. "When she returns, I want you to pay closer attention. Not just to how she moves, but to who she looks at, what she avoids, when she relaxes."
"You think she's hiding something."
"I think everyone is hiding something. The question is whether what she's hiding is valuable or just damage." He walks to the window again, back to watching his kingdom. "Gabriel Pope moved in certain circles before he died. Made investments, formed partnerships, collected information. If his widow has access to any of that, it's worth knowing."
So that's what this is. Not fascination or curiosity. Leverage. Lucien wants to know what Lana Pope is worth—not as a person, but as an asset. Information is currency in his world, and a wealthy widow with a suspicious husband's death is a potential goldmine.
I should feel disgusted. This is exactly the kind of thing I left behind when I left Elias's operation. Using surveillance to exploit vulnerability, turning people into problems to be solved or resources to be extracted.
But I don't feel disgusted. I feel useful again, which is somehow worse.
"I'll watch her," I say.
"I know you will." Lucien's tone shifts, becomes almost paternal. "You're very good at watching, Jax. It's your gift and your curse. The question is whether you know when to stop watching and start acting."
I don't respond. There's no good answer to that.
He dismisses me with a gesture. I leave the office, take the elevator back down to the control center, return to my chair and my screens and my coffee that's gone cold.
The main floor is still busy. Members drinking, talking, performing their own versions of wealth and power. I should be monitoring all of them, scanning for problems, and maintaining the security that justifies my employment.
Instead, I pull up the saved footage of Lana Pope.
I watch her arrive again. The hesitation before she exits the car. The way she tests the entrance like it might bite her. I watch her walk to the booth, sit down, fold her hands. I watch her look at the camera—at me—with those dark eyes that see too much.
I rewind. Watch again. Study the micro-expressions I missed in real-time. There—a tightening around her mouth when Dominique asks if she'd like anything else. A fractional stiffening of her shoulders when a male patron walks past the booth. A moment where her hand moves toward her phone but stops halfway, like she's reminding herself not to reach for it.
She's not just performing normalcy. She's policing herself. Every gesture calculated, every expression monitored. The way someone behaves when they know one wrong move will expose them.
