She studies me for a long moment. Then: "Show me."
I lead her away from the main gathering, down a hallway lined with art that probably costs more than I'll earn in my lifetime. The panic room is accessed through what looks like a regular door but is actually reinforced steel disguised as wood. I key in the code—eight digits, changed weekly—and the lock disengages with a soft click.
Inside, the space is surprisingly comfortable. Small sitting area, stockpiled supplies, communication equipment wired to bypass any potential building-wide outage. And those windows. Three walls of glass overlooking Miramont fromheights that make the city look like a circuit board of light and shadow.
"This is excessive," Lana says, but she's moving toward the windows like she's drawn to them.
"Lucien doesn't do half measures." I stay near the door, maintaining distance. "The room is designed to sustain two people for seventy-two hours. Water, food, medical supplies, satellite phone. If something happens—fire, breach, any kind of emergency—this is the safest place in the building."
"And you designed this?" She's looking at me now, not the windows.
"I consulted on it. The actual design was architects and security specialists. I just made sure it would work in practice, not just theory."
"The difference being?"
"Theory assumes people follow protocols. Practice accounts for panic." I lean against the doorframe, keeping my body language relaxed even though every nerve is alert. "Most security failures happen because people don't know what to do when fear takes over. This room is designed to make the right choice the easiest choice."
She nods, processing. Then: "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone less..." She searches for the word. "Thoughtful. Most security people I've met treat protection as a theatrical performance. Showing off guns and muscles and intimidation. You're different."
"I don't carry a gun." It's true. I haven't carried one since returning from overseas. The weapon made me feel too muchlike Elias's enforcer, too much like the person I was trying to stop being.
Her eyebrows rise. "Head of security for Lucien Armitage's empire and you don't carry?"
"I carry knowledge. That's more dangerous than any weapon." I straighten from the doorframe. "Knowing where the threats are before they arrive. Knowing which exits to use. Knowing who to trust and who to avoid. That keeps people safer than any gun."
"And do you know?" she asks quietly. "Who to trust?"
The question lands like a challenge. Like she's testing whether I'll be honest or perform the role Lucien expects.
I choose honesty. "In this city? Almost no one. In this room?" I hold her gaze. "I'm still deciding."
She doesn't look away. Doesn't retreat. Just stands there in Lucien's bulletproof panic room, wearing burgundy, looking at me like I'm a problem she's trying to solve.
"I should get back," she says finally. "Before people start wondering where I've gone."
"They're wondering already. That's what people do." I step aside so she can pass. "But wondering isn't the same as knowing. And knowing isn't the same as acting."
She pauses in the doorway, close enough that I can smell her perfume again. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her. "You talk like someone who's spent a lot of time watching people."
"I have."
"What do you see when you watch me?"
The question is loaded, dangerous, and exactly the kind of honesty I should deflect. But something about the way sheasks it—like she genuinely wants to know, like the answer matters—makes deflection feel like cowardice.
"I see someone who's very good at pretending to be okay for other people," I say. "And I see how much that costs."
Her breath catches, barely audible. Then she's moving past me, back down the hallway, returning to the party where she'll resume the performance I just named.
I stand in the panic room for another thirty seconds, counting heartbeats until my pulse returns to normal. One hundred and seventeen beats.
When I return to the main living area, the gathering has thinned. The venture capitalist left while I was showing Lana the panic room. The married couple is making their final goodbyes, all air kisses and promises to lunch soon that neither party means. Only the art dealer remains, still talking to someone about market trends and emerging artists.
Lana is back at the windows, coffee cup in hand, looking like she never left. The performance resumed seamlessly. But I can see the shift in her posture—shoulders slightly more rigid, grip on the cup tighter than necessary. Our conversation affected her.
