"He's better than we initially assessed," Brandon says as we pull up to a modern building in The Gateway that's significantly more secure than Lana's old apartment. "The level of preparation, the patience to watch patterns for days, the skill to pick locks and time an entry that precisely—this isn't standard private investigator work."
"No, it's intelligence contractor level training." I'm already scanning the building exterior, noting the controlled access entrance, the security cameras, the concierge desk visible through the lobby windows. "Which means whoever hired him has resources beyond standard legal intimidation."
"That's what concerns us." Brandon leads me into the building, shows credentials to the concierge, and takes me to the elevator. "We're operating on the assumption that Trask has backing and skills that make this a serious threat rather than just harassment."
The elevator rises to the tenth floor. A Blackwood agent is positioned outside one of the doors and nods to Brandon as we approach.
"Marcus," Brandon says by way of introduction. "This is Jax Hills, the security consultant Mr. Voss arranged. Jax, Marcus has been on-site since the evacuation."
Marcus and I exchange nods—professional acknowledgment without unnecessary conversation. Brandon knocks before opening the door.
"She's been asking for you since four AM," Brandon says. "Wouldn't stop until we contacted Mr. Voss to coordinate getting you here. She's made it very clear she wants you involved in the security design."
The door opens, and I see Lana for the first time in a week.
She's standing by the window looking like she hasn't slept, still wearing what must be the closest thing she grabbed when they evacuated her, and the week of space collapses into the immediate reality of her being threatened in ways professional security couldn't prevent.
"Jax." My name comes out like something between relief and accusation. "He was in my apartment. While I was sleeping."
Brandon clears his throat. "I'll give you two some space to discuss the security assessment. Marcus and I will be right outside if you need anything. Mr. Hills, take whatever time you need to evaluate the location and discuss protection protocols with Ms. Pope." He's already moving toward the door, Marcus following, both of them maintaining professional distance while clearly recognizing this conversation needs privacy.
The door closes behind them, leaving us alone in the safe house.
"Are you hurt?" I'm moving closer without meaning to, professional distance collapsing into the immediate need to confirm she's actually unharmed.
"No. He didn't touch me. Just left that message on my mirror. Like he wanted me to know he could have but chose not to." She takes a shaking breath. "This time."
The implication makes my chest tighten. Trask was close enough to hurt her and instead chose psychological damage—proving he has access whenever he wants it, that professional security can't actually keep her safe.
"I'm here to design security for this location. Something he can't bypass." I'm keeping my voice professional even though every instinct is screaming to close the distance between us, to pull her against me and confirm she's actually safe.
"Security design?" Her expression shifts to something complicated—fear and frustration and anger mixing together. "I don't want security design, Jax. I want you to tell me how to actually be safe. Because professional security had someone posted at my door and Trask still got into my bedroom. So clearly what I have isn't working."
"Blackwood is good—"
"Blackwood didn't stop him. You would have." She's moving closer now, closing the distance I was trying to maintain. "You would have seen him coming, would have known he was watching patterns, would have stopped him before he got anywhere near my apartment. Admit it."
She's right, and we both know it. The surveillance I had installed would have caught Trask conducting reconnaissance. I would have seen the pattern analysis, the timing of bathroom breaks being observed, the preparation before penetration. But admitting that means admitting professional security isn'tsufficient, that she needs exactly the kind of surveillance I agreed to discontinue.
"Lana—"
"He was in my bedroom, Jax. Moved my phone. Left that message. And I didn't even know until Andre’s forced entrance woke me up." Her voice breaks. "So tell me—do I want you for protection, or do I want you because you're the only person who can actually keep me safe? Because right now I can't tell the difference, and I don't care."
The confession hangs between us—raw, desperate, the kind of honesty that only comes when fear strips away every careful construction. She's asking me to tell her what she feels, to solve the equation we've both been trying to work through for a week. Except I can't give her that answer because I'm still trying to figure out the same thing about myself.
"You're scared," I say, even though the assessment feels inadequate. "Trask violated your space in the worst possible way. Of course you want the person who you think can prevent that from happening again."
"I missed you before he broke in." Her voice is steadier now, the initial panic giving way to something more controlled. "I spent a week wanting to text you about things that had nothing to do with threats. So don't tell me this is just fear talking."
She's right, and we both know it. I spent the same week checking traffic cameras near her building even though I promised Elias I'd stop completely. Telling myself it was threat monitoring when really I just needed to see her moving through space I couldn't access anymore.
"You know I can't keep removing surveillance and reinstalling it every time circumstances shift," I say. "Either wecommit to figuring this out together, complications and all, or we maintain complete separation. Those are the only options that don't destroy both of us."
She's watching me with an expression I can't quite decode—something between frustration and understanding. "What does committing look like?"
"It looks like me reinstalling security at your apartment with Blackwood's oversight. It looks like us having actual conversations about what we want instead of testing boundaries through crisis." I close the distance between us, but stop when I'm close enough to see the exhaustion in her face. "And it looks like acknowledging that attraction and protection are entangled and maybe that's okay."
"Solange is going to say this is exactly what she warned me about. That I'm trading one cage for another just because this one feels safer."
