Her eyes go bright, almost wet. She blinks it away quickly. "Why would you help me do that?"
"Because watching you carry uncertainty like a death sentence is worse than knowing you're a killer." I lean forward again. "At least killers have clarity. You're in limbo. And limbo destroys people more effectively than any verdict."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're very good at this. Making surveillance sound like care. Making investigation sound like intimacy."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"I don't know. That's the problem." She meets my eyes. "You installed cameras in my apartment this morning. You're tracking my phone, monitoring my movements, watching everything I do. Gabriel did all those things too. He said it was because he loved me, because he wanted me safe. And I believedhim until I realized love and control were the same word in his vocabulary."
The comparison lands like accusation. She's not wrong. The parallels between my surveillance and Gabriel's are uncomfortable.
"The difference," I say carefully, "is that you can end this anytime. Revoke my access, change your locks, tell me to stop. I'll comply. Gabriel wouldn't have."
"You say that now. But what happens when I'm more important to you than compliance? When protecting me becomes more important than respecting my choices?"
It's another question I've been avoiding. At what point does protection become possession?
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm trying to build boundaries that prevent that. Transparency, consent, giving you control over the surveillance. If I start crossing lines you haven't approved, call me on it. Make me accountable."
"And if calling you on it isn't enough?"
"Then you're right. I'm just Gabriel with better marketing. And you run."
We sit in the aftermath of that admission—the acknowledgment that I might become what I'm claiming to protect her from. The restaurant continues around us, other diners eating lunch, having normal conversations about normal problems. We're pretending to be normal too, but the pretense is thin.
Lana breaks the tension first. "Tell me about Elias. How you ended up working for him."
The request surprises me. "Why does that matter?"
"Because if I'm trusting you to protect me, I need to understand how you learned protection. Whether it was taught as control or as something else." She pushes the soup bowl aside and leans on the table. "And because you've been investigating every aspect of my life for two weeks. Turnabout seems fair."
She's right. I've cataloged her routines, her therapy appointments, her coffee preferences. She knows almost nothing about me beyond what Lucien presented at dinner.
"I was nineteen when Elias found me," I start. "Working private security for a company that hired people who were good at following orders and not asking questions. I was very good at both. Elias saw potential for something more refined."
"Refined how?"
"Intelligence work. Situations that required discretion more than force. Problems that needed solving quietly." I drink cold coffee, choosing my words carefully. "Elias ran operations in legal gray zones. Not everything he did would look good in court transcripts, but his clients paid for results, not ethics."
"You're being vague."
"I'm being careful. Some things shouldn't be discussed in public restaurants between people who've known each other for two weeks." I meet her eyes. "Let's just say I was good at surveillance and planning. Less good at other aspects of the work. Elias realized I fit better in roles that didn't require certain... commitments."
She studies me, reading between the lines. "That's why you don't carry a gun. You're uncomfortable with that level of involvement."
"I prefer keeping people safe through information and preparation. Violence is a last resort, not a first option." I lean back. "Elias sent me overseas partly for training, partly to getdistance from work I wasn't suited for. When I came back, the operation had evolved. Cleaner. More of what I could live with."
"So, when you came back. You started working for Lucien, who operates in similar spaces."
"Yes, because Elias asked me to. Said Lucien was different—building something legitimate, not just protecting criminals from consequences." I meet her eyes. "I'm still determining whether he was right about that."
"And if he wasn't? If Lucien is just another version of the men you protected before?"
"Then I made a mistake trusting Elias's judgment." I lean forward again. "But that doesn't change you. Protecting you isn't about Lucien's legitimacy. It's about keeping someone safe who deserves safety."
"You don't know if I deserve safety. You don't know what I did."
"I know you survived five years with Gabriel Pope. That's enough."
