Neil moves to my windows, examines sight lines and access points with the same efficiency Brandon brings to documentation. "We recommend twenty-four-hour protectionfor the next two weeks minimum. One agent with you during the day, another monitoring your building overnight. We'll coordinate with your workplace security, provide transportation when needed, establish communication protocols for any suspicious activity."
Twenty-four-hour protection. A stranger following me everywhere, watching me work, driving me home, sleeping in my building's lobby. The surveillance Jax removed is being replaced with something more invasive, just with better liability insurance.
"That seems excessive for a PI who's just taking photographs."
"It would be, if Trask were operating alone." Brandon pulls up photos on his tablet—images Jax must have provided. "But Reese's involvement changes the threat profile. He specializes in break-ins designed to look random, intimidation that stops just short of prosecutable assault. His presence suggests whoever's funding this operation has moved past documentation into active destabilization."
The words settle over me with a weight that makes my apartment feel smaller. Active destabilization. That's what the past three weeks have been—Ezra's legal threat, Trask's surveillance, the constant awareness of being watched and assessed and targeted. I thought having Jax remove his cameras would create breathing room. Instead it just made the threat more real. I was already exposed; I just didn't realize how exposed until now.
"When would protection start?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Immediately, if you authorize it. We have an agent in the building now, waiting for your approval to begin theassignment." Brandon's expression is kind but impersonal. "Ms. Pope, I understand this feels intrusive. But based on the analysis of the threat pattern, we believe you're at significant risk within the next seventy-two hours."
Seventy-two hours. Three days until Trask or Reese or whoever Ezra hired escalates from photographs to something worse. Three days to decide if I'm willing to trade Jax's surveillance for professional protection that comes without emotional complication.
"Okay," I say, because the alternative is pretending threats don't exist just to maintain some illusion of independence. "Start immediately."
Brandon makes a call; speaks in operational shorthand I don't try to decode. Within five minutes, another man appears at my door—younger than Brandon or Neil, maybe early thirties, wearing casual clothes that blend into any environment. He introduces himself as Derek Walsh, shakes my hand with appropriate firmness, then positions himself near my entry in a way that's protective without being obvious.
This is my life now. Professional security following me everywhere, monitoring threats through official channels, keeping me safe without the personal investment that made Jax's watching feel like intimacy rather than violation.
I miss the intimacy. Miss it so badly that the professional distance feels like its own kind of abandonment.
Brandon and Neil finish their assessment, leave behind communication protocols and emergency procedures, and confirm that Derek will remain until his partner arrives for the overnight shift. Then they're gone, and I'm alone in my apartment with a stranger whose job is keeping me alive but doesn’t actually know me.
Derek settles into position near my couch, pulls out a tablet, starts doing whatever protective agents do when the threat isn't actively manifesting. He doesn't look at me with interest or curiosity or any of the focused attention Jax brought to observation. He's just here. Present but not engaged. Safe but not connected.
I look at my phone sitting on the kitchen counter where I left it. The lack of messages or contact from Jax feels like punishment even though I know it's necessary.
I pick it up and text Solange:Professional security started today. They're very professional.
Her response comes immediately:That's good, right? Isn't that what we wanted?
Me:Yes. It's good. It's exactly what we wanted.
Solange:You sound thrilled.
Me:I'm thrilled. Ecstatic. Living my best life with a stranger in my apartment whose job is making sure I don't get murdered.
Solange:I'll see you at the office in an hour. We can talk then. Looks like you’re spiralling.
She's right. I've been spiralling since Friday, since I asked Jax to remove the cameras and give me space, since I realized that the line between independence and isolation is thinner than I wanted to believe.
Me:Can't wait. Should I bring my security detail into the office or leave him lurking in the lobby?
Solange:Bring him in. Everyone needs to know about the threat situation anyway. See you soon.
"I need to go to the foundation office. We're there until the board meeting at six tonight."
"Understood. I'll drive you, establish a position in your office area, and coordinate with building security." His voice is neutral but professional. "Do you have other commitments this week I should know about?"
Other commitments. Like the conversation I'm supposed to have with Jax about whether our attraction survives without surveillance. Like the therapy appointment with Dr. Cross on Wednesday where I'm going to have to explain that I asked the man watching me to stop watching, and now I can't figure out if I miss him or just miss feeling protected.
"Therapy Wednesday at two. Otherwise just foundation work." I move to my bedroom; I need to get ready for a full day at the office even though facing Solange's inevitable questions feels impossible when I can barely manage my own emotional infrastructure.
Derek doesn't follow me into the bedroom—professional boundaries I'm grateful for even though Jax maintained the same courtesy. I close the door, lean against it, and try to remember what it felt like three days ago when removing the cameras seemed like the healthy choice rather than self-inflicted exile.
My phone vibrates. Text from an unknown number:Enjoying your new security? They seem very thorough. Wonder if they're thorough enough. —OT
