Expose them as what, though? Murderer? Victim? Both?
I think about that 911 call again. "I think I killed my husband." Not "I killed my husband." Not "my husband is dead." The uncertainty in those four words is everything. She doesn't know. Or doesn't remember. Or is pretending not to know while remembering perfectly.
I should stop this. Close the file, focus on the live feeds, do the job I'm being paid to do. Watching archived footage ofa woman who's already left the building isn't security work. It's voyeurism.
But I don't stop.
I watch her drink wine. Watch her scan the room with eyes that catalog threats instead of enjoying the ambiance. Watch her leave with the same controlled precision she arrived with, every movement careful, every step measured.
The footage ends. Black screen. Timestamp showing 9:51 PM.
I check the current time: 11:17 PM.
I've been watching a ghost for over an hour.
My phone buzzes. Not Lucien this time. Elias. The text is brief:Monthly dinner. Tomorrow night. Don't cancel on me again.
I forgot about our dinner. I've canceled the last three, always with excuses that were technically true but functionally evasions. I don't want to sit across from Elias and pretend I'm fine when we both know I'm hollow. Don't want to see the disappointment in his face when he realizes that sending me away didn't fix me, just relocated the problem.
But he's persistent. He always has been.
I text back:Where?
His response:The usual. 7 PM. And Jax? We need to talk.
That's never a good sign.
I close my phone. Return my attention to the monitors. The Dominion is winding down—last call was twenty minutes ago, and the staff are starting the subtle choreography of encouraging departures without being rude about it. In another hour, the building will be empty except for the cleaning crew and overnight security. Then I'll run my end-of-night checks,compile my report, and go home to the apartment I rent three blocks away that feels less like a home than this control center does.
Before I leave, I pull up Lana Pope's file one more time. Not the surveillance footage. The research I compiled earlier. Society photos, obituaries, police reports. I add tonight's observation notes:First visit to The Dominion. Duration: 47 minutes. Behaviour: defensive awareness, controlled affect, minimal interaction. Notable: possible camera detection, surveillance consciousness. Recommendation: continued monitoring.
Then I add something I probably shouldn't:Subject shows signs of hypervigilance consistent with trauma response. Further observation needed to determine if threat assessment is environmental or internal.
I'm not a psychologist. I'm not qualified to diagnose trauma. But I know what hypervigilance looks like because I see it in the mirror every morning.
She's haunted by something. And I'm haunted by her being haunted.
Which makes this complicated in ways that Lucien probably anticipated, and I definitely didn't.
I save the file. Close the system. Run through shutdown procedures. Lock the control center behind me. Take the stairwell up to street level and exit through the staff door into a night that's turned cold.
The walk home is seventeen minutes. I count them. Consistency and control.
But the whole way, I'm thinking about dark eyes finding a camera they shouldn't be able to see, and a woman who lookedat me through a lens and made me feel less hollow for three seconds.
Next week she'll be back.
I'll be watching.
CHAPTER 2: LANA
The invitation arrives on a Wednesday, slipped under my apartment door like a secret someone wants me to keep. Heavy card stock, cream-colored, my name written in expensive calligraphy:Ms. Lana Pope.
Not Mrs. Not anymore.
I pick it up with fingers that have learned not to shake in public. The envelope is sealed with wax—an actual wax seal, burgundy with an embossed "D" that I recognize as The Dominion's logo. Lucien Armitage doesn't do anything by accident. The formality is a message: you're being invited into something that matters.
I break the seal. Inside, the card is simple:
