He's also telling me he thinks it's inevitable that I will.
I leave the penthouse at 11:30, take the elevator down through floors of expensive real estate and expensive lives. Exit onto streets that are quieter now, the city winding down toward whatever passes for sleep in Miramont.
My apartment is seventeen minutes away by foot. I count the blocks, count my steps, count anything that keeps me from thinking about the fact that I just accepted an assignment to protect a woman I'm already obsessed with.
But thinking is inevitable. By the time I reach my building—older construction, nowhere near The Crest's luxury but solid and secure—I've already planned tomorrow's surveillance. Her apartment first, mapping vulnerabilities and blind spots. Then her office at the foundation, checking for weaknesses in security. Then her routines: subway routes, walking patterns, the therapy appointments I know she keeps but haven't confirmed the location of yet.
I'm not protecting her. I'm building a cage around her, made of my attention.
And the worst part is that I don't want to stop.
Inside my apartment, I pour water I don't drink and stand at my window looking out at a city full of people who aren't her. My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to reach for it. I pull up the interface I shouldn't have—access to her building's outdated camera system that I breached a week ago, the night I followed her home.
The system was embarrassingly vulnerable. No encryption, basic infrastructure, the kind of security thatexists to deter casual criminals but fails against anyone with penetration tools and intelligence training. Overseas work taught me how to identify and exploit these weaknesses. I told myself I'd never use those skills for personal surveillance.
I used them anyway.
The camera in the third-floor hallway shows her door. Closed. Light visible underneath. She's home, she’s safe. For tonight, at least, she's safe.
I'm crossing lines I swore I wouldn't cross. And I can't seem to stop.
I watch that closed door for forty-three minutes before forcing myself to close the app. Force myself to shower, to attempt sleep, to pretend I'm not already in too deep to surface.
But I know the truth. I have known it since she looked at Camera 12 two weeks ago and saw me watching.
I'm not protecting Lana Pope.
I'm claiming her.
And I have no idea if that's going to save her or destroy us both.
CHAPTER 6: LANA
I wake at 6:17 AM with Gabriel's voice in my head.
You're embarrassing me. You're always embarrassing me.
The words are clear and sharp, like he's standing beside the bed instead of buried in a cemetery plot his family chose without consulting me. I lie there in the predawn darkness, counting ceiling fan rotations until the voice fades back into whatever corner of my memory keeps resurrecting him.
The dream—if it was a dream—lingers like smoke. Gabriel at one of his business dinners, his hand on my thigh under the table, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. Smiling at colleagues while his fingers dug into my flesh. Punishment disguised as affection.You talked too much tonight. You need to learn when to be decorative instead of distracting.
I get up. Shower with water hot enough to scald, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of his hands on my skin. Five months dead and he still touches me in ways I can't escape.
By 7 AM, I'm dressed for the foundation office—gray slacks, cream blouse, the uniform of someone who's holding it together. My phone shows three texts from Solange asking about last night's dinner, one from Dr. Cross confirming our Friday session, and one from an unknown number that makes my stomach drop.
Ms. Pope, we should talk. Regarding Gabriel's estate and certain irregularities that have come to light. Please contact my office at your earliest convenience. — Malcolm Fielding, Attorney at Law
Malcolm Fielding. Gabriel's attorney. The man who handled the estate transfer, who assured me everything was straightforward, who promised Gabriel's will was ironclad.
If he's contacting me about "irregularities," someone is challenging something.
I don't call him back. Instead, I make coffee with hands that have learned not to shake in public, drink it standing at my kitchen counter while watching the morning light turn my apartment from prison to merely a cage.
The dinner last night was supposed to be networking. A performance. Another step in proving I could exist in Lucien Armitage's world without falling apart. Instead, it became something else the moment Jax Hills showed me that panic room and told me he could see my performance for what it was.
I see someone who's very good at performing recovery. And I see how much that performance costs.
No one has said anything that true to me since Gabriel died. Maybe since before he died. Dr. Cross gets close in therapy, but she's paid to excavate my damage. Jax just looked at me and named it like he'd been studying the architecture of my survival.
