And before the marriage—almost nothing. A few references to her parents, David and Susan Reeves, who died in a car accident when she was twenty-four. Inherited their estate, their money, and their absence.
Then Gabriel, then five years of photographs where she gets progressively thinner, more polished, more expensive, and less present.
Then Gabriel falls. Then she's alone again.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the most recent photo I can find. It's from three weeks ago—some charity lunch downtown. She's wearing cream, which feels significant somehow, like she's testing the waters of not-mourning. Her hair is different, shorter. And she's looking at the camera instead of through it.
Something about her bothers me, and I can't identify what. It's not attraction, though she's objectively beautiful. It's not suspicion, though that 911 call is a red flag big enough to bevisible from space. It's something else. Recognition, maybe. The way you recognize another ghost when you're haunting the same house.
I close the search windows. The clock reads 7:15. An hour and forty-five minutes until Lana Pope walks into my field of vision. I should use the time productively—review the staff roster, check equipment calibrations, run diagnostics on the backup systems.
Instead, I pull up Camera 12: the private booth Lucien mentioned. It's in the northeast corner of the main floor, elevated three steps above the general seating, positioned for maximum visibility while maintaining the illusion of privacy. The booth curves in a half-moon of black leather, a marble table anchored in the center with recessed lighting designed to flatter without revealing too much. It's where Lucien seats people he wants noticed but not approached. A showcase position.
He's putting her on display.
I switch between angles, mapping the sightlines. Camera 12 gives me the booth itself. Camera 4 covers the approach from the entrance. Camera 9 catches the bar she'll pass on her way. Camera 14 monitors the exit she might use if she decides to leave early. I program a split screen configuration, four feeds arranged so I can track her movement from arrival to departure without losing visual contact.
This is excessive. I know it's excessive. Lucien asked me to watch her, not build a surveillance net. But excessive is how I work. It's why I'm good at this.
It's also why Elias sent me away.
I remember the conversation we had before I left for overseas training. We'd been sitting in his office—the one in hishome, he'd poured us both scotch even though it was eleven in the morning.
"You're becoming too invested," he'd said. "In the targets, in the outcomes, in the work itself. That's dangerous."
"I'm thorough."
"You're obsessive." He'd held up a hand before I could argue. "Which makes you brilliant. But brilliance without boundaries becomes compulsion. You need distance. Perspective. Time to remember you're human, not just a function."
"What if I prefer being a function?"
"Then you'll be a very efficient sociopath." He'd smiled, but the smile was sad. "I don't want that for you, Jax. You deserve better than becoming what I almost turned you into."
So he'd sent me away. Private military training in Eastern Europe, executive protection work in the Middle East, intelligence consulting in Asia. Three years of learning how other countries taught control, discipline, and surveillance. Three years of discovering that no matter where I went, I was still hollow.
When I came back, Elias had this job waiting. "Lucien needs someone with your skills," he'd said. "But the work is different. Clean. Legal. You'll be protecting a business, not protecting men from consequences."
He'd been right about that, at least. The Dominion is legitimate—technically. Members pay extraordinary fees for privacy and access. What they do with that privacy isn't my concern as long as it stays within legal boundaries. I'm not committing or covering up crimes anymore. I'm just... watching.
Which should feel better than it does.
The clock reads 7:43. I run through my evening routine: check camera angles, verify recording systems, test communication links with floor security, review the member list for tonight's reservations. Sixty-three members are expected. High volume for a Monday. Lucien will be pleased.
At 8:30, I make another pot of coffee. The ritual helps. Grind, heat, steep, press. Consistency. Control.
At 8:47, the first members begin arriving. I watch them filter through Camera 4: men in expensive suits, women in designer dresses, couples who've learned to perform wealth so convincingly they've forgotten it's a performance. The door staff checks them against the biometric registry—thumbprint and retinal scan, no exceptions. The Dominion's security is theater and substance in equal measure. Members want to feel exclusive. I need to keep them safe. Lucien wants both.
At 8:53, a black car pulls up to the entrance. Town car, driver in uniform, rear windows tinted. I lean forward slightly, though the distance between me and the monitor doesn't change anything about what I can see.
The driver opens the rear door.
She emerges like a woman testing the temperature of water she's not sure she wants to enter. One leg, then hesitation, then the rest of her following. She's wearing black—of course she's wearing black, she's mostly been wearing black for five months—but this dress is different from the funeral photos. It's simpler. Less armor and more skin. The hemline hits just above her knee. Her shoulders are bare.
She looks smaller in person than she does in photographs. More breakable. But that's the wrong word because nothing about the way she moves suggests fragility. She walks across the sidewalk to the entrance with the kind ofprecision that comes from years of being watched, being judged, being evaluated.
I switch to Camera 4, the entrance view. She reaches the door. The host, Marcus, has been with The Dominion since opening night and greets her with the appropriate deference. She nods. Doesn't smile. Places her thumb on the biometric pad, leans forward for the retinal scan. The system clears her. Lucien must have arranged her enrollment earlier—probably had her come in during off-hours to avoid the crowd.
Marcus gestures toward the main floor. She follows.
