I switch to Camera 9, tracking her progress through the lobby. The Dominion at night is all dark wood and warm lighting, designed to feel like old money even though everything in it is new. Crystal chandeliers, leather furniture, art on the walls that costs more than most people earn in a year. The members who are already here barely glance at her—they're too practiced at pretending not to notice each other—but I can see the awareness ripple through the room. New patron. Young, beautiful, and alone.
She doesn't look around. Doesn't gawk. She walks like she's been in places like this before, which she has. Gabriel Pope's world was adjacent to Lucien's, overlapping circles on a Venn diagram of wealth and influence.
Camera 12 now. She's approaching the booth. A server intercepts her—Dominique, good instincts, knows how to read patrons—and guides her the final steps. Lana slides into the booth with a grace that looks practiced. Sits in the exact center. Folds her hands on the marble table.
Then, for the first time since entering, she looks up.
And directly at Camera 12.
I go very still.
She can't possibly know where the camera is. They're hidden, integrated into the architecture in ways that most people never notice. But she's looking right at it, her dark eyes finding the lens with unnerving precision.
For three seconds, maybe four, she holds that gaze. Then she looks away, accepting a menu from Dominique, the moment passing so quickly I could convince myself I imagined it.
But I didn't imagine it.
She knew. Or suspected, or was testing something.
The way her eyes sweep the booth, cataloguing exits and angles. The way she positions herself—back to the wall, clear view of the room. The way she looked at the camera.
This woman is not just aware of surveillance. She's expecting it.
Dominique is taking her order now—I can't hear the conversation from here, audio requires explicit consent, and Lucien hasn't authorized it for general floor coverage—and retreats. Lana is alone in the booth now, surrounded by luxury, watched by me and probably half the room even if they're pretending otherwise.
She doesn't pull out her phone. Doesn't fidget. Just sits there, hands still folded on the table, posture perfect, and her face carefully blank.
I've seen this before. In targets who know they're being watched. In people who've learned to perform normalcy while calculating escape routes. In ghosts who've gotten good at haunting.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lucien:Impressions?
I consider my response. What do I tell him? That she looked at the camera? That she moves like someone trainedin defensive awareness? That there's something about her that makes the hollow place in my chest feel less empty and I don't understand why?
I type:Cautious, self-contained. Difficult to read.
His response is immediate:Keep watching.
As if I could stop.
She sits in that booth for forty minutes. A server brings her wine—red, single glass. She drinks it slowly, one small sip at a time, like she's rationing. No one approaches her. Lucien must have put out word that she's not to be disturbed.
At 9:47, she signals for the check. Pays with a card that the system processes instantly. Stands. Adjusts her dress in a gesture that looks automatic, smoothing fabric that doesn't need smoothing.
Then she walks toward the exit, and I track her across my screens. Camera 9, Camera 4, Camera 2. She's leaving. First visit to The Dominion, less than an hour, no interaction with other patrons. Just sat alone in a booth drinking wine while I watched her not watch back.
Except she did watch back. For those three seconds, she saw me. Didn’t she? Maybe I’m delusional.
The door closes behind her. The town car is waiting. She gets in. The car pulls away.
I should feel relieved. Assignment complete. Surveillance concluded. Report to Lucien that the new patron arrived, behaved appropriately, departed without incident.
Instead, I feel hungry.
Not for food. For information. For answers to questions I don't know how to ask yet. Who is Lana Pope beneath the perfectwidow performance? What happened on those cliffs five months ago? Why did she look at the camera like she knew I was there?
And why does watching her feel less like work and more like recognition?
I sit in the control center for another twenty minutes after she's gone, watching the empty booth on Camera 12 like it might tell me something the woman herself didn't. I'm sure the leather still holds the impression of where she sat.. A wine glass with lipstick on the rim waits for someone to clear it. Evidence of presence, proof that she was real and not just another file in my research.
