Good. It affected me too.
Lucien catches my eye from across the room and nods once. Acknowledgment. Approval. Whatever happened in that panic room met his expectations. Or maybe exceeded them. With Lucien, it's impossible to know which outcome he actually wanted.
By 10:45, the last guests have departed. The catering staff is cleaning up in efficient near-invisibility, and Lucien is pouring himself another scotch. Lana is still at the windows, but hercoffee cup is empty now. She's just standing there, looking at the city like it might provide answers.
"Jax," Lucien says. "Walk Ms. Pope to her car."
It's not a request.
Lana turns from the window. "That's not necessary. I'm sure you have other responsibilities."
"My responsibility tonight is making sure guests feel secure." I gesture toward the elevator. "It's late. The building is secure, but I'd rather confirm safe departure than assume it."
She looks like she wants to argue. Then something in her expression shifts—resignation, maybe, or just exhaustion—and she nods. "Thank you."
We say goodbyes to Lucien that feel more formal than they should, given what I know about his manipulation, and what she must suspect about his interest. Then we're in the elevator, descending through thirty floors of silence that feels heavier than any surveillance feed I've ever monitored.
At the twentieth floor, she speaks. "That was kind. What you said about the performance."
"It wasn't kind. It was honest."
"Same thing, sometimes." She's looking at the elevator's brass panel, not at me. "Most people don't notice. Or they notice and pretend they don't because noticing would require acknowledging something uncomfortable."
"I'm paid to notice uncomfortable things."
"Is that what I am? An uncomfortable thing?"
The elevator reaches the lobby before I have to answer. The doors open onto marble floors and the night doorman who nods respectfully as we pass. Outside, the town car is waiting. Same driver, same precision timing.
I open the rear door. Lana pauses before getting in at turns to face me. "Will I see you again? At The Dominion?"
"I'm there most evenings."
"But I won't see you. Will I?" Her eyes are sharp despite the exhaustion. "You're the one behind the cameras. In some kind of control room I can't access. Watching."
My pulse kicks up. She's guessing. Or she's deduced it. Either way, she's figured out more than she should have.
"Security requires observation," I say carefully.
"That's not a denial." She studies my face like she's memorizing it. "I knew someone was watching. I could feel it. The cameras are too well-placed to be random. Too focused. Someone's been paying very close attention."
I should deflect. Should maintain professional distance. Should not confirm surveillance that crosses boundaries I'm barely maintaining.
Instead, I say: "Someone has been paying attention, yes."
"Why?"
"Because Lucien asked me to. Because you're a patron he's invested in. Because..." I stop. Regroup. "Because watching is easier than acting, and I've gotten very good at easy."
Her expression does something complicated. "And now? After tonight?"
"Now I know watching isn't enough." The admission costs me. "But I don't know what comes next. What action looks like instead of observation."
She nods like I've confirmed something she already suspected. Then she's sliding into the car, and the driver is closing the door, and I'm standing on the pavement watching taillights disappear into Miramont's late-night traffic.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lucien:Come back up.
I take the elevator to the penthouse. The catering staff has finished, the space restored to its usual pristine state. Lucien is at the windows where Lana stood, scotch in hand, looking down at the city.
