The comparison lands exactly where Lucien intended. Elias and Mara. The relationship that made Elias walk away from everything he'd built. The cautionary tale about obsession disguised as protection.
"I'm not repeating anything," I say. "I'm doing my job."
"Of course you are." Lucien's voice carries that edge of calculation I've learned to recognize. "Finish the installation. Make sure Lana understands how to access the system. And Jax? Thursday's lunch with Ezra—I want you there. Not at the table, but close enough to intervene if necessary."
"She's bringing Solange."
"Solange isn't security. You are. Be there." He hangs up before I can respond.
I spend the next forty minutes configuring Lana's access to the system, creating an interface simple enough that she can monitor feeds without technical expertise. By 11:17 AM, everything is operational. I text her the access codes, include instructions for how to enable or disable cameras, how to set alerts, and how to review archived footage.
Her response:This is more control than I expected.
I type back:That's the point. You decide what surveillance looks like. I just provide the infrastructure.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally:Thank you. This feels different from Gabriel's cameras. Like I'm in charge instead of being managed.
You are in charge. That's non-negotiable.
I'm packing up my equipment when I notice the boxes stacked in her bedroom. Visible through the open door, labeled in neat handwriting:Kitchen,Books,Gabriel's things. She hasn't unpacked most of her life. Still living in limited space between who she was and who she's becoming.
The bedroom itself is minimal. Bed, nightstand, lamp. No mirrors. No photographs. No decoration. Just functional furniture in a room designed for sleeping and nothing else.
It's the bedroom of someone who doesn't want to be reminded of their life.
I finish packing, do a final sweep to make sure I haven't left evidence of installation. The cameras are invisible unless you know where to look. Lana will see them because I gave her the locations. Everyone else will miss them.
Before I leave, I pull out my phone, open the monitoring app, check each feed. Living room: empty, afternoon light through windows. Kitchen: clean, unused. Entrance: door closed, no movement. Everything is secure. Everything watched.
I lock her apartment, return the key under the mat, and text her:Installation complete. System is live. You have full access.
Her response comes as I'm leaving the building:Can we meet? I have questions about Thursday.
When and where?
Lunch. My treat. There's a place near the foundation office—Stella's. Noon?
I check my schedule. Nothing that can't be rearranged.I'll be there.
Stella's is the kind of place that survives on neighborhood loyalty rather than ambiance. Worn booths, laminate tables, a menu that hasn't changed in twenty years. The food is good, the prices are reasonable, and nobody asks questions about who you are or why you're eating alone.
I arrive at 11:53, seven minutes early because early is control and control is the only thing keeping me from acknowledging that meeting Lana for lunch crosses boundaries I've been pretending to maintain. This isn't surveillance. This isn't protection. This is two people sitting across from eachother, talking, the way people do when they're interested in something beyond professional obligation.
She's already here when I enter. Sitting in a back booth, facing the door the way someone trained to monitor exits would position themselves. She's wearing gray today—slacks and a sweater that make her look softer than a black dress would make her look, more approachable. Her hair is down, and she's studying the menu even though something about the way her eyes move suggests she already knows what she's ordering.
I slide into the booth across from her. "You're early."
"So are you." She sets down the menu. "I ordered coffee. Want some?"
"Please."
A server appears with coffee, takes our orders—grilled cheese and tomato soup for her, club sandwich for me—and disappears. We're left in that awkward space of two people who've agreed to meet but haven't established what they're meeting about.
Lana breaks the tension first. "I tested the camera system. Disabled the living room feed for an hour, then re-enabled it. Checked the archived footage to make sure it worked."
"And?"
"And it's exactly what you promised. Full control. Full transparency." She wraps both hands around her coffee cup. "That's not what I expected."
