Goodnight, Lana. And thank you.
For what?
For not running. For letting me help. For being the first person in two years who made watching feel like connection instead of isolation.
I don't respond to that. Don't know how to respond. Just set down my phone and lie back down, staring at the ceiling fan that continues its rotations whether I count them or not.
Sleep comes eventually. I dream about cameras and recordings and a version of myself who knows whether she killed Gabriel or tried to save him. In the dream, the answer is clear.When I wake at 6:23 AM, the clarity evaporates, leaving only the same uncertain fragments I've been carrying for five months.
The sleeping pill I took barely worked—I remember waking three times, checking my phone, confirming Jax hadn't sent more midnight texts about emptiness and surveillance.
By 7 AM, I've showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater that signal casual but intentional, and made coffee strong enough to compensate for fractured sleep. The apartment feels different in morning light with cameras watching. I'm aware of my movements in ways I wasn't yesterday—the act of pretending to have a sense of normalcy even in private space.
At 8:15, I text Solange:Meeting with Jax this morning to prep for Thursday. Will be at the office by noon.
Her response:Be careful. And I mean that in every possible way.
I know what she means. Be careful about letting him into my apartment again. Be careful about the intimacy of preparation. Be careful, period.
What she doesn't know is that we're already past careful. Midnight texts about emptiness and watching, admissions that I make him want to be present instead of absent—we've crossed boundaries faster than either of us intended, and I haven't told her any of it.
At 9:47, my phone buzzes. Jax:Thirteen minutes out. Need anything before I arrive?
I type back:Just coffee. Already made.
Perfect. See you soon.
I spend the next thirteen minutes doing unnecessary tidying—straightening couch cushions, wiping down the already-clean kitchen counter, checking my appearance in thebathroom mirror like I'm preparing for a date instead of a tactical briefing. The performance is absurd. He's seen me through cameras. He knows what my apartment looks like. This preparation is vanity disguised as hospitality.
At exactly 10 AM, there's a knock on my door.
I check the entrance camera feed on my phone first—verification has become instinct since Gabriel—and see Jax standing in the hallway. He's wearing dark jeans and a gray henley that fits him differently than the suits at Lucien's dinner. More relaxed. The fabric pulls across his shoulders in ways that make me aware he has a body beneath the professional competence, that surveillance and protection require physicality I've been deliberately not noticing.
I open the door. "Punctual."
"Always." He steps inside, and the apartment immediately feels smaller. The casual clothes make him seem less like security and more like someone who could belong in domestic spaces. Someone who could belong here. I push the thought away.
"Coffee smells good."
"Kitchen." I gesture toward the counter where two mugs wait, aware that I'm leading him deeper into my apartment, into the small space where proximity becomes inevitable.
He follows me into the kitchen and sets his bag on the counter. The room is barely large enough for two people to occupy comfortably. I'm hyper-aware of the distance between us—maybe three feet, close enough to catch the scent of whatever soap he uses, something clean and unobtrusive.
"How do you take it?" I ask, reaching for the coffee pot.
"Black."
"Of course you do." I pour coffee for both of us, and when I turn to hand him a mug, he's closer than I expected. Close enough that I have to look up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that I notice details I've been avoiding through camera feeds—the exact shade of deep brown in his eyes, darker than I expected and absorbing every flicker of my expression, the small scar near his left temple, the way his jaw tightens when he's deciding what to say.
"Efficiency and control, even in caffeine consumption," I add, forcing my voice to stay light as I step back, putting necessary distance between us.
His lips curve into something that might be a smile. "You're mocking me."
"I'm observing patterns. There's a difference." I lean against the opposite counter, maintaining distance that suddenly feels too much and not enough. "So, recording device. Show me what we're working with."
He sets down his coffee, opens the bag, pulls out what looks like an ordinary pendant necklace. Silver chain, small circular pendant with subtle etching. "This. The microphone is integrated into the pendant. Battery lasts eight hours, uploads audio in real-time to a secure server. If the connection drops, it stores locally and syncs when connection resumes."
I take the necklace, examine it. The pendant is heavier than decorative jewelry but not suspiciously so. The metal is warm from being in his bag, and I'm absurdly aware that his hands just held this, that there's transference of heat. The etching is elegant enough to pass as design rather than functional necessity. "And I just wear this? That's it?"
