The control center hums. I'm alone. I prefer being alone.
At 6:43, the stairwell door opens without a knock. Lucien never knocks. This is his domain. I'm just the caretaker.
"Jax." He says my name the way some men say "sit"—expectation wrapped in civility.
I swivel in my chair. Lucien Armitage looks exactly as he always does, charcoal suit cut by someone who understands fabric as language, silver hair swept back from a face that's aged into the kind of handsomeness that opens doors, and blue eyes that catalog everything they see and file it for later use. He moves through the world like he owns it because in most ways that matter, he does.
"Mr. Armitage." I stand because not standing would be a statement I'm not ready to make.
"We have a new patron tonight." He walks to my monitors and studies them with the interest of a man inspecting his own reflection. "I need you to pay particular attention."
This isn't standard procedure. The Dominion operates on carefully maintained distance—Lucien handles the social architecture, I handle security. He doesn't usually brief me on individual patrons unless there's a threat assessment involved.
"Who?" I ask.
"Lana Pope." He lets the name sit between us like he's waiting for recognition.
I shake my head.
"Gabriel Pope's widow." Lucien turns from the monitors to look at me directly. "Gabriel was a venture capitalist—tech investments, successful exits, old money married to new innovation. He died five months ago. Fell from their estate during a storm. The death was ruled accidental."
"But you don't think it was." Not a question. Lucien doesn't bring me names unless there's a question mark attached.
"I think," he says carefully, "that Lana Pope is a woman with secrets. And secrets are currency here. I want to know what hers are worth."
"What exactly am I looking for?"
Lucien smiles, and the expression is all calculation, no warmth. "You'll know it when you see it. Watch how she moves, who she talks to, what she avoids. She's here because I invited her—she declined twice before accepting. That interests me."
"Why invite her at all?"
"Because interesting people make The Dominion more valuable." He adjusts his cufflinks, a gesture I've learned means he's finished with the conversation. "She'll arrive at nine. Private booth on the main floor. I trust your discretion."
Then he's gone, footsteps receding up the stairwell, leaving me alone with my machines and a name that already feels like weight.
Lana Pope.
I pull up my secondary monitor and start searching.
The society pages give me the surface: photograph after photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Pope at charity galas, art openings, museum fundraisers. She's beautiful in that specific way wealthy women are beautiful—expertly maintained, carefully presented, always beside her husband like an accessory chosen to complement his suit. Black dresses. Minimal jewelry. A smile that never reaches her eyes.
Gabriel Pope is exactly what I expected: strong jaw, expensive haircut, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. In every photo, his hand is on her—lower back, shoulder, waist. Claiming. The body language is clear even through the screen.
His obituary is sanitized: "Beloved husband, successful entrepreneur, philanthropist. Tragic accident during severe weather. Survived by his wife, Lana. Memorial service private."
But I have contacts in places that don't sanitize. Twenty minutes of targeted searching gives me the police report, or at least the parts that matter. Wife called 911 at 12:53 AM. First words: "I think I killed my husband."
Officers arrived at 1:17 AM. Found Gabriel Pope's body at the base of the cliffs below the couple's estate. Severe trauma consistent with a three-hundred-foot fall. Wife in shock, cooperative but disoriented. Investigation ruled accidental death after forty-eight hours. No evidence of foul play. Stormy conditions. Dangerous cliffs. Tragic accident.
Except that 911 call. "I think I killed my husband."
Not: He fell. Not: I need help. Not: There's been an accident.
I think I killed my husband.
I pull up more photos. Lana at the funeral, standing alone despite the crowd of mourners. The perfect widow in black, face carefully blank, but her eyes are wrong. They're not full of grief. They're not even empty. They're something else. Relieved? Terrified? Both?
I keep searching and find their wedding announcement from six years ago. She was twenty-seven, he was thirty-four. "Lana Reeves to marry Gabriel Pope in an intimate ceremony." There's a photo: Lana in white, smiling that same smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Gabriel's hand on her waist. Already claiming.
