And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
CHAPTER 9: JAX
I leave Lana's apartment at 12:17 PM with the phantom sensation of her skin under my fingers, the way her pulse jumped when I fastened the necklace, and the fraction of a second where we stood too close in her kitchen and neither of us moved away. The awareness follows me down three flights of stairs, onto streets that feel too bright after the intimacy of her apartment, and through the walk back to my place where I have less than seven hours to kill before meeting Elias.
Six and a half hours to not think about the way her knee pressed against mine on the couch. The way she looked at me when I said she was reconstructing instead of breaking. The way rehearsing her testimony felt less like preparation and more like learning the architecture of how she thinks.
I'm in trouble. The kind Elias warned me about years ago when he was teaching me the difference between protection and possession.You'll know you've crossed the line when you can't distinguish between keeping someone safe and keeping them yours.
Back in my apartment, I force myself to be productive. I review Ezra Pope's background one more time—corporate lawyer, political ambitions, expensive divorce three years ago that left him bitter about family money. Pull up Marconi's floor plan, confirm table positioning, identify backup exits I didn't mention to Lana because explaining every contingency would reveal how obsessively I've been planning.
At 2 PM, I review tomorrow's logistics one more time. Then I do something I know I shouldn't: I pull up the apartment camera feeds. Lana's living room appears on my screen—I can see her couch where we sat too close, the kitchen where Istood behind her. The cameras show empty rooms. She's at the foundation office by now, working with Solange.
The temptation is overwhelming. I could check the archived footage, watch what she did after I left, see if she took off the necklace immediately or kept wearing it.
I don't. That's the line. Watching her when she's invited surveillance is protection. Watching her when she thinks she’s alone is violation. The distinction matters even if it feels arbitrary.
By 4 PM, I've done everything I can do for tomorrow. The prep is complete, excessive, probably neurotic. I make myself eat—leftover takeout that tastes like cardboard because my mind is still in Lana's kitchen, still aware of how her breath changed when I stood behind her.
At 6:30 PM, I dress for Elias. He'll notice details—what I'm wearing, how I present myself, whether I look like someone in control or someone barely maintaining composure. I choose dark jeans and a button-down that splits the difference between casual and intentional. Elias respects preparation but dislikes performance.
His house is in The Willows, the neighborhood between The Crest's ostentatious wealth and The Margin's honest poverty. Old money that doesn't need to prove itself. I've been here dozens of times—strategy sessions, debriefings, dinners where Elias would teach me how to read people by watching how they ate.
I arrive at 6:57 PM. Three minutes early because late is disrespectful and exactly on time suggests you didn't plan for error. Elias taught me that too.
The door opens before I knock. Elias stands there looking exactly as he always does—early fifties, gray threading throughdark hair, a build that suggests he still trains even though he's mostly retired. Eyes that miss nothing.
"Jax." He steps aside. "Come in."
The house is familiar territory. Hardwood floors, minimal furniture, art that's carefully chosen but not showy. Everything in its place. Everything is intentional. Elias doesn't do chaos.
"Coffee or something stronger?" he asks, leading me to the study.
"Coffee's fine."
"Liar. You want scotch but you're trying to stay sharp." He pours two glasses anyway and hands me one.
I accept the scotch without arguing. Elias doesn't ask questions he doesn't already know the answers to.
"Sit."
I sit in the leather chair across from his desk—the same chair where I've sat for a decade of conversations ranging from tactical briefings to life advice. Elias settles behind the desk, and the positioning is deliberate. This isn't colleague to colleague. This is a mentor evaluating his student.
"So I hear you’re protecting Gabriel Pope's widow," he says without preamble.
"Lucien told you."
"Lucien told me you're providing security. I'm asking if you're protecting her or claiming her." He sips his scotch, watching my reaction. "There's a difference."
"I know the difference."
"Do you?" He leans forward. "Because I've been hearing things from Lucien. The surveillance, the monitoring—it doesn't sound like standard protection protocol."
"It's comprehensive threat mitigation."
"Is it? Or have you crossed lines you shouldn't?" He sips his scotch. "Lucien mentioned you asked questions about her at the exhibition. Got protective when I was talking to her. He said you were watching the feeds with more attention than security requires."
"I was doing my job."
