"Understood." I scan the space automatically, cataloging everything. Two exits besides the elevator—service entrance to the kitchen, emergency stairs accessed through a hidden panel in the hallway. Windows don't open, reinforced glass, impossible to breach from outside. The penthouse is as secure as any location can be in a building this exposed.
"Lana Pope will be here," Lucien says, watching me over the rim of his glass. "I assume you know that already."
"You mentioned eight guests."
"She'll be one of them." He walks to the windows, looks down at the city sprawling below. "This is her first time at a more... intimate gathering. I want her to feel welcomed. Included. Not watched."
The irony isn't lost on me. I've been watching her for two weeks. Following her surveillance footage, tracking her movements, standing outside her apartment like a ghost she doesn't know is haunting her. Lucien telling me not to watch her is like telling fire not to burn.
"What's my role tonight?" I ask.
"Present but unobtrusive. You'll join us for drinks before dinner, handle any logistics that arise, then excuse yourself before the meal. I don't need you hovering. I need you available if needed." He turns from the window. "And Jax? If she asks about you—what you do, why you're here—be honest. Within limits."
"What limits?"
"Tell her you handle security. Don't tell her you've been studying her like a problem you're trying to solve." His smile is all calculation with no warmth.
I should have known. The control center has cameras too—of course it does. Lucien wouldn't leave his head of security unwatched, wouldn't trust anyone that completely. He must have seen every replay I've pulled, every angle I've reviewed, every minute I've spent studying her when I had no operational reason to.
"We both know you're past professional observation. The question is whether you can still perform professionalism."
I should argue. Should tell him he's wrong, that I'm handling the assignment exactly as requested. But Lucien doesn't make statements he can't back up with evidence. If he knows I'm obsessed, it's because the obsession is visible.
"I can perform," I say.
"Good. Because tonight matters. Not just for her—for you." He finishes his scotch and sets the glass down with a soft click. "The other guests are carefully chosen. Art collectors, philanthropists, people who move in circles adjacent to Gabriel Pope's. They'll assess her. Judge whether she's recovered enough to be included or still too fragile to engage. Your presence will add an interesting variable."
"How?"
"You're younger than most of my associates. Attractive. Competent in ways that intimidate people who've never had to be competent at anything. She'll notice you. The question is how you handle being noticed."
The catering staff arrives at 6:30, followed by Lucien's assistant confirming final details. I position myself near the entrance—close enough to monitor arrivals, far enough to avoid seeming intrusive. By 7 PM, the first guests have arrived: an art dealer I recognize from The Dominion's exhibition last week, a venture capitalist Lucien's been cultivating, a married couple who own half the real estate in The Crest.
They circulate with champagne, making conversation that sounds intimate but is really just networking with better lighting. I watch them display wealth and culture; the same show I've seen hundreds of times at The Dominion. The routine should be boring. Instead, I'm calculating how each of these people will react to Lana, whether any of them knew Gabriel, and what judgments they're preparing to render.
At 7:43, my phone buzzes. Text from the car service:Arriving in two minutes.
My pulse kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with security protocols and everything to do with the fact that I'm about to be in the same room as the woman I've been obsessing over. The woman whose apartment I know the location of, whose therapy appointments I could recite, and whose walking routes I've memorized.
The elevator chimes. The doors open.
And there she is.
The photographs don't do her justice. The surveillance footage doesn't capture the way she moves through space—precise and controlled, like she's calculating each step. She's wearing burgundy, and it transforms her from widow in black to woman in color. The shift is intentional. Significant.
Lucien crosses to greet her, takes her hand, and says very few words I'm too far away to hear. She smiles, the same practiced smile I've seen in every society photograph, but her eyes scan the room with the wariness of someone expecting threats.
They land on me.
For three seconds—I count them—Lana Pope looks directly at me across Lucien's penthouse. Her expression shifts, barely perceptible. Interest. Assessment. The way someone looks at a person they're meeting for the first time but instinctively recognizes as significant.
She doesn't know who I am. But she's noticed me.
Then Lucien guides her toward the other guests and the moment breaks.
I should move. Should circulate, should monitor the room the way I'm paid to do. Instead, I stay exactly where I am, watching her navigate introductions with the same careful precision she uses for everything else. The art dealer kisses her cheek, offers condolences about Gabriel that sound rehearsed. The venture capitalist shakes her hand too long, his assessment predatory. The married couple performs sympathy while their eyes critique her dress, her jewelry, and her positioning in Lucien's hierarchy.
She handles it all with grace that looks effortless but reads as exhausting. Every smile is calculated. Every response is measured. She’s acting the part of recovery for an audience that's waiting for her to break.
