"I don't want covert. I want transparency." I hold his gaze. "You said the difference between stalking and protection is possession versus safety. Prove it. Give me access to the system. Let me see what you see."
He considers this, and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. This is a test. A boundary negotiation. He can either prove that his surveillance is truly protective, or reveal that it's just control with better marketing.
"Deal," he says finally. "I'll install the cameras tomorrow. Give you admin access to the system. You'll be able to see every feed, every alert, every piece of data I'm collecting." He pauses. "But Lana? If I see a threat, I'm acting on it. With or without your permission. That's non-negotiable."
"As long as you tell me why you're acting."
"Deal."
We sit there for a moment, two people who've just agreed to something that might save me or destroy us both. Then Jax stands, pulls out his wallet, leaves cash on the table for my drink.
"I'll walk you home," he says.
"I can walk myself."
"I know you can. But the man who was following you might still be in the area, and I'd rather confirm you reach your apartment safely than track your movement from a distance."
He's right. I hate that he's right. But accepting reality is part of survival.
We leave the coffee shop together. Walk the twelve blocks to my apartment building in the kind of silence that feels less uncomfortable than it should. Jax maintains position slightly behind and to my right—protective placement, I realize, wherehe can intercept threats from most angles while keeping me in his peripheral vision.
At my building entrance, he stops. "I'll install the cameras tomorrow morning. Nine AM, if that works for you."
"I'll be at the foundation office by then."
"Then I'll text you when I'm done. Send you the access codes." He hesitates, then adds: "And Lana? About Thursday's lunch with Ezra. Don't go alone. Bring someone. Solange, a lawyer, anyone who can witness the conversation and back up your version if he tries to twist your words later."
"Solange already insisted on coming."
"Good. She's smart." Of course he knows who Solange is. I shouldn't be surprised—he's clearly been researching me. But hearing him say her name so casually, like he's already catalogued everyone in my life, sends a chill through me.
He turns to leave, then stops. "One more thing. If you need me—if anything happens, if you feel threatened, if you just want confirmation that I'm watching—text me. I'll respond immediately."
Then he's walking away, disappearing into the afternoon crowd, leaving me standing outside my apartment with the uncomfortable realization that I just invited surveillance into my life. Chose it and negotiated its terms.
Gabriel taught me to fear being watched.
Jax is teaching me that sometimes being watched is the only thing standing between survival and destruction.
I don't know which lesson is true yet.
But I know that I'm about to find out.
CHAPTER 7: JAX
I arrive at Lana's apartment building at 8:47 AM with equipment that looks innocuous enough to pass a casual inspection—tool bag, electrical testing devices, the uniform of someone who belongs in hallways installing fixtures. The building super barely glances at me when I show him the work order Lucien's assistant generated overnight. "Third floor, apartment 3C. Tenant approved the installation."
The lie comes easily. It always has.
Lana texted me at 7:12 AM:I'll be at the office by 8:30. Key is under the mat. Don't judge my decorating choices.
The fact that she left me access feels significant. Trust, maybe, or desperation. Possibly both. She's inviting surveillance into her private space because the alternative—being watched by people who want to harm her—is worse.
I climb to the third floor, find her door, retrieve the key from under a mat that's seen better days. Inside, the apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined at the same time.
Small. Sparse. Temporary in a way that suggests she's still deciding whether to stay or run. The living room contains a second-hand couch, a coffee table with water rings, and no television. The kitchen is barely used—clean dishes in the drainer, empty counters, a French press and coffee grinder that look newer than everything else. One bedroom is visible through an open door, minimal furniture, and boxes stacked against the wall.
She hasn't unpacked. Five months after Gabriel's death and she's still living like she might disappear at any moment.
