CHAPTER ONE JAX #2
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 his home, 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 of precision 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.
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 trained in 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 perfect widow 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?