"Ezra's private investigator made contact with Lana's foundation office yesterday morning. Owen Trask—former cop turned PI, the kind who takes jobs that require flexible ethics." I pull up the relevant file, show Lucien the surveillance photos I've been collecting. "Solange had him removed by security. No physical confrontation, just intimidation photography. He's been following Lana for at least two weeks now, documenting her movements, building whatever narrative Ezra's paying himto construct. I've been monitoring his patterns. He's getting more aggressive now that the legal route is failing."
"Failing?" Lucien's eyebrow rises fractionally. "I wasn't aware the will contest had been withdrawn."
"Not officially yet. But Mira Keaton sent Malcolm Fielding a letter already. I outlined everything your investigators found—Ezra's state assembly campaign. Called his bluff, because we know he also risks exposure"
"And Malcolm's response?"
"Radio silence so far. But that's strategic—he's advising Ezra, running calculations on whether a public legal battle is worth the political suicide." I switch feeds, and show Lucien the building where Malcolm's firm operates. "My guess is they'll withdraw within the week. Ezra can't afford the scrutiny right before announcing his campaign."
Lucien studies the screen for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice carries that particular tone that means he's shifted from employer to something more invasive. "You've become very invested in Ms. Pope's legal situation."
"You asked me to watch her."
"I asked you to observe. There's a difference between observation and investment." He turns to face me directly. "You're sleeping with her."
It's not a question, but I answer it anyway. "No."
"But you want to."
The truth sits between us like something physical. I could lie—should lie, probably, maintain the professional distance that's been eroding since the night Lana looked directly at my camera and saw me watching. But Lucien already knows. He's been reading the same patterns I've been trying to hide.
"Yes," I say.
"That's unfortunate." Lucien straightens his cufflinks, the gesture he uses when delivering verdicts. "Not because I object to your personal entanglements—your private life is your concern as long as it doesn't compromise your work. But because she's a woman with significant legal and financial complications, and you're the person assigned to watch and protect her. That power imbalance doesn't disappear just because you've developed feelings."
"I'm aware of the power imbalance."
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you look like a man who's convinced himself that honesty absolves methodology." His voice isn't unkind, just clinical. "You told her about the cameras. You gave her access codes. You've established what you believe are ethical boundaries. But she's still a woman being watched by a man who's attracted to her, and that dynamic has its own gravity regardless of how transparent you try to make it."
The assessment lands with uncomfortable accuracy. I've been running the same analysis for weeks—trying to determine if surveillance with transparency is genuinely different from surveillance as control, or if I'm just Gabriel with better justification.
"So what are you suggesting?" I ask.
"Nothing. I'm observing." Lucien moves toward the stairs, then pauses. "But if you're going to pursue this, Jax, make sure you're doing it for the right reasons. Attraction built on protection and vulnerability has a tendency to collapse once the threats resolve. Make sure what you're feeling is about her, not about your need to be the one keeping her safe."
After he leaves, I sit with his words for longer than I should. I pull up Lana's apartment feed. She's pacing between the couch and the window, that restless back-and-forth movement she does when she's thinking too much. Three passes in two minutes. Whatever she's processing, it's not settling.
My phone sits on the console, and I'm reaching for it before I've consciously decided to text her.
Me:You're pacing. What's wrong?
She stops mid-stride, looks at her phone, and starts to type. Three dots appear on my screen, disappear, appear again.
Lana:How long have you been watching?
Me:Twenty minutes. You came home, ordered Thai, and have been pacing for the last ten.
Lana:That's not creepy at all.
Me:You want me to stop watching?
The dots appear and disappear twice before her response comes through:No. But I want you to stop pretending you're doing it purely for professional reasons.
Fair. I type back:I'm watching because someone needs to make sure Ezra and his people don't escalate. But I'm also watching because I can't seem to stop thinking about you, and this is the closest I can get without violating the waiting agreement we made.
Lana:That's either very honest or very concerning.
Me:Probably both.
