"Rich, successful. Owns The Dominion. Interested in me for reasons I don't fully understand." I think about his texts, his calculated invitations, the way he curated that exhibition specifically to resonate with my history. "He's manipulative. But transparent about it, which makes it feel less dangerous somehow."
"Does it? Or does transparency just make the manipulation more seductive?"
I don't have an answer for that.
We spend the rest of the session discussing boundaries, safety planning, what it would look like to attend tonight's dinner while maintaining emotional distance. By the end, I havea plan: arrive on time, stay for exactly two hours, leave if I feel triggered, text Solange halfway through to check in.
"And Lana?" Dr. Cross says as I'm leaving, "Consider why you're drawn to spaces where you feel watched. We've talked about Gabriel's surveillance, how it made you feel trapped but also visible. Make sure you're not confusing being seen with being controlled."
I promise I'll think about it.
The rain has stopped by the time I leave her office. I walk the ten blocks back to my apartment, letting the damp air clear my head. At home, I have two hours before the car arrives. I shower, dry my hair, apply makeup with more care than usual. The burgundy dress fits perfectly—neither too loose nor too constrained, just enough structure to feel intentional.
I study myself in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back is not the widow from Gabriel's funeral. She's not Mrs. Pope performing for society photographers. She's someone else entirely—someone I'm still learning to recognize.
At 6:43 PM, my phone buzzes. Text from the driver:Arriving in two minutes.
I grab my clutch—ID, phone, lipstick, emergency cash—and head downstairs. The town car is waiting, same driver as before. He opens the rear door without speaking. I slide into leather seats that smell like money and decision.
"The Dominion?" I ask, even though I know the answer.
"Mr. Armitage's private residence," the driver says. "Twenty minutes."
My stomach drops. I assumed the dinner would be at The Dominion, in that controlled environment where I know the exits and can be a patron instead of guest. But Lucien's private residence is different. More intimate. More vulnerable.
More dangerous.
I pull out my phone. Text Solange:Dinner is at Lucien's home, not The Dominion. Still going. Will check in at 8.
Her response:Be careful Lana. Remember you can leave anytime. You don't owe him anything.
I know I can leave. That's what I keep telling myself as the car winds through increasingly expensive neighborhoods, from The Margin's comfortable anonymity to The Crest's ostentatious wealth. The buildings get taller, the streets get cleaner, and the distance from my actual life gets wider.
Finally, we stop in front of a building that looks more like a museum than a residence. Pre-war architecture, limestone facade, doorman in uniform who nods as I exit the car.
"Ms. Pope," the doorman says. "Mr. Armitage is expecting you. Penthouse level."
Of course it's the penthouse.
The elevator is all brass and mirrors. I watch my reflection multiply as we ascend—one Lana becoming many Lanas, all of them wearing burgundy, all of them wondering what they're walking into.
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse. No hallway, no transition. Just immediate entry into Lucien Armitage's private world.
And he's waiting for me, drink in hand, smile perfectly calibrated. "Lana. You came. And you wore burgundy. Excellent choice."
Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows show the city sprawling below. And beyond the windows, seven other guests I don't recognize, all holding drinks, all looking at me like I'm the evening's entertainment they've been anticipating.
I step out of the elevator into Lucien's domain, and the doors close behind me with a soft click that sounds too much like a trap being sprung.
CHAPTER 5: JAX
I arrive at Lucien's penthouse at 6:15 PM, forty-five minutes before the first guest. Early is protocol. Early means I can sweep the space, verify exits, confirm the catering staff has been properly vetted. Early means control, and control is the only thing standing between competence and the hollow place in my chest that's been getting wider since I followed Lana Pope home last Friday.
The elevator ride to the penthouse takes thirty-eight seconds. I count them. I've been counting everything since that night—steps from my apartment to The Dominion, rotations of my desk chair, the number of times I've pulled up archived footage of her looking at Camera 12. The counting doesn't help. It just gives structure to obsession.
Lucien is waiting when the doors open, scotch already in hand even though guests won't arrive for nearly an hour. He's dressed in what I've learned to recognize as his "intimate dinner" uniform—navy suit, no tie, the careful casualness of someone who's never been casual in his life.
"Jax. Good. Come in." He gestures toward the main living area, all floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that costs more than most people earn annually. "Eight guests tonight. I'll introduce you as head of security. Most of them already know who you are, but the formality matters."
