"I'm saying you're a complication in a system that doesn't tolerate complications. And the people managing that system will choose the solution that minimizes exposure." I lean forward. "That's why Lucien assigned me to protect you. Not just because you're a valuable patron. Because if something happens to you—if Ezra succeeds, if The Glasshouse moves against you—it brings attention to connections Lucien can't afford to be examined. Your survival protects his interests."
"So he's not only protecting me. He's also protecting himself."
"He's protecting his empire. You're part of that calculation." I hold her gaze. "But that doesn't mean the protection isn't real. Lucien needs you alive and stable. That aligns with what you need too."
She's quiet for a long moment, absorbing implications. Then: "And you? Why are you protecting me? Is it just because Lucien pays you?"
It’s the question I've been avoiding since I followed her home. The answer that determines whether I'm Elias's cautionary tale or something different.
"At first, yes. It was a professional obligation. An assignment." I hold her gaze. "Then I spent two weeks watching you pretend to be a recovering widow for people who don't deserve the effort. Watching you count rotations and steps and the cost of every decision. Watching you live in an apartment you haven't unpacked because you're still deciding whether surviving Gabriel was worth the guilt of how he died."
Her expression does that thing I've learned to recognize—shuttering, protecting, preparing for judgment.
"And that made you want to protect me?" she asks quietly. "Watching me fall apart in carefully controlled increments?"
"That made me recognize myself. The performance. The counting. The hollow place where purpose used to be." I lean back, giving her space. "I've spent two years behind cameras, watching people instead of engaging with them. Telling myself distance is safety. You're the first person who made me want to step out from behind the lens."
"That's not protection. That's projection."
She studies me for a long time. Then: "Elias Voss. The man I met at the exhibition. He's your mentor, isn't he?"
The shift surprises me. "He was. How did you know?"
"I looked him up after the exhibition. Former intelligence contractor, now semi-retired, runs security consulting. His client list included Lucien Armitage until about three years ago." She picks up her spoon again and tastes her soup. "Then you showed up working for Lucien. The timeline matches. And the way you talk about distance and engagement—it sounds like someone who was trained by a person who learned those lessons the hard way."
"He asked me what I saw when I looked at that photograph.The Drop. Like he was testing whether I'd be honest or perform."
"That's Elias. He's always testing."
"And you learned from him. Which means you're testing me too. Watching to see if I'm worth whatever risk you're taking by protecting me."
She's more perceptive than I gave her credit for. "Everyone tests everyone. The question is whether the test is hostile or curious."
"Which is yours?"
"Curious." I finish my sandwich and drink coffee that's gone lukewarm. "I'm curious whether you killed Gabriel. I'm curious whether you remember doing it. I'm curious what you'll do if Ezra pushes you hard enough on Thursday. I'm curious if you'll let me help you or if you'll run the moment protection starts feeling like control."
"And if I killed him?" She asks it directly, unflinching. "If I pushed Gabriel off that terrace knowing exactly what I was doing—does that change your protection?"
The honest answer is complicated. The professional answer is clear.
"If you killed him in self-defense, if you were protecting yourself from escalating violence, then no. It doesn't change anything." I meet her eyes. "But if you killed him in cold calculation, if you planned it and executed it and the memory gaps are convenient fiction—then I need to know. Because protecting someone who's dangerous is different from protecting someone who's in danger."
"Why?"
"Because dangerous people require containment. People in danger require defense. The tactics are different."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "I don't know which one I am. That's the truth. I remember fragments—the fight, the rain, his hands on me, and the fall. But I can't sequence them. Can't determine if I pushed or if he slipped or if my hands were trying to save him and failed. The police ruled it accidental. I told myself that was enough."
"But it's not."
"No." She sets down her spoon again, finally finished pretending to eat. "It's not. Because if I killed him deliberately, I need to know. I need to own it. Need to decide if I'm the kind of person who can live with that."
Saying it takes something from her. I can see it in the tension around her mouth, the way her hands curl slightly on the table. She's revealing more than intended, testing whether I'll recoil or stay.
I stay.
"Then we figure it out together," I say. "Reconstruct that night. Find evidence, witnesses, anything that clarifies what actually happened. Not because I'm judging whether you deserve protection. Because you deserve to know the truth about yourself."
