Elias:Good. Because we need to talk about what you're going to do when the woman you're obsessed with realizes she doesn't actually need you.
The assessment is surgical in its accuracy. This is the question I've been avoiding since Lana asked me to remove the cameras—what happens when protection was the only thing making me necessary? When surveillance was the scaffolding holding up attraction that can't support its own weight?
Tomorrow's lunch with Elias will force me to answer that question. Tonight I just sit in the control center watching feeds that don't include her, trying to convince myself that distance is the same as doing the right thing.
The shift passes with the particular torture of having nothing urgent to focus on. Friday nights at The Dominion run predictably—regulars arriving between eight and ten, private sessions in rooms I monitor through feeds that suddenly feel invasive in ways they didn't before Lana asked me to stop watching. Every camera angle is a reminder that surveillance is my entire professional identity, and I just agreed to stop applying it to the person I actually care about.
At eleven-forty, Marcus texts about tomorrow's handoff:Anything I need to know for day shift?
I type back:Senator Michaels may have questions about today's situation. Direct him to Lucien. Don't engage directly.
Marcus:Understood. You good?
The question carries weight I wasn't expecting. Marcus has worked The Dominion for years, handles day shift with the same mechanical competence I bring to nights. We're not friends—don't socialize outside work, barely speak beyond operational necessity. But apparently my patterns have deviated enough that even he's noticed.
Me:I'm fine.
Marcus:Sure you are. See you Monday.
I finish the shift at two AM, drive home through streets that feel different without the detour past Lana's building. Used to take Morrison Avenue specifically to pass her apartment complex, check the exterior lighting, make sure nothing looked wrong from street level. Now I take the direct route to The Hollows, save myself eight minutes and the temptation to perform surveillance I'm supposed to be discontinuing.
My apartment is exactly as I left it—empty equipment case on the floor, laptop on the coffee table, the particular sterility of someone who doesn't accumulate possessions. I should sleep. I have lunch with Elias in ten hours and need to be functional enough to handle whatever uncomfortable truths he's going to force me to acknowledge.
Instead I open my laptop and pull up the footage I saved before dismantling Lana's surveillance system. Three weeks of recordings—her moving through her apartment, pacing when she's thinking, the particular way she drinks coffee standing at her window. I told her I'd remove the equipment. Never said I'd delete the archive.
This is exactly the obsession Elias warned me about. The inability to let go even when letting go is the only ethical option. I'm watching footage of a woman who asked me to stop watching, justifying it by telling myself I might need the historical data for threat assessment.
But threat assessment isn't why I'm replaying the video from the night after our kiss, when she’s touching her mouth like she was trying to memorize the sensation. It’s because I can’t stop thinking about the woman who asked me to stop watching her.
I close the laptop before I can spiral further into territory that proves Lucien right about my compromised judgment. Set my alarm for eleven AM, strip down to boxers, and get into mybed that feels too empty even though I've slept alone for two years.
My phone sits on the nightstand. No new messages from Lana. The space she asked for is exactly what she's getting, and I'm trying to convince myself that distance is the same as respect.
Tomorrow I'll have lunch with Elias. Tell him about removing the cameras, about Trask's escalation, about Lucien's order to disengage completely. He'll ask all the question I'm avoiding.
The ones I don't have an answer to just yet. Maybe tomorrow I'll find one.
Or maybe I'll just learn to live with wanting someone who's better off without me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: LANA
Three days without surveillance feels like learning to walk after years in a wheelchair—freedom mixed with the vertigo of suddenly having to balance on my own. The cameras are gone. Jax sent me Blackwood Security's information Friday, then went radio silent in a way that feels both respectful and devastating. This is what I asked for. Space to figure out if what I feel is real or just dependency wearing an attractive face.
But the space is killing me.
The weekend passed in a haze of restless insomnia and obsessive phone-checking, waiting for messages from Jax that never came.
It’s Monday morning, and I'm answering my door for strangers who'll replace the surveillance I asked to haveremoved. Two men from Blackwood arrive at my apartment to conduct a security assessment.
Both are in their forties, dressed like they're attending a business meeting, carrying themselves with the particular confidence of people who've spent time in military or law enforcement. The taller one introduces himself as Brandon Hayes, the other as Neil Patterson. Neither of them watches me the way Jax did—with that focused attention that felt like being studied and seen simultaneously. They're professional. Detached. Exactly what I need and nothing like what I want.
"Ms. Pope." Brandon pulls out a tablet and starts documenting my apartment's layout with mechanical efficiency. "We contacted your former primary security personnel, Mr. Jax Hills, to gather background on the threat assessment. He provided comprehensive documentation that's allowed us to move forward quickly."
He pulls up files on his screen. "Owen Trask has been surveilling you for approximately three weeks, with escalation in the past five days. Victor Reese entered the surveillance pattern four days ago. Based on the materials Mr. Hills provided, our assessment is that this represents a credible threat requiring immediate protective measures."
The clinical language is supposed to be reassuring. Instead it makes everything feel worse— it doesn’t reduce the fear I've been carrying about threats and security protocols; instead it strips away the human element that made Jax's protection feel personal rather than transactional.
"What kind of protective measures?" I ask.
