CHAPTER FIVE JAX
Lucien is waiting when the doors open, scotch already in hand even though guests won't arrive for nearly an hour. He's dressed in what I've learned to recognize as his "intimate dinner" uniform—navy suit, no tie, the careful casualness of someone who's never been casual in his life.
"Jax. Good. Come in." He gestures toward the main living area, all floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that costs more than most people earn annually. "Eight guests tonight. I'll introduce you as head of security. Most of them already know who you are, but the formality matters."
"Understood." I scan the space automatically, cataloging everything.
Two exits besides the elevator—service entrance to the kitchen, emergency stairs accessed through a hidden panel in the hallway.
Windows don't open, reinforced glass, impossible to breach from outside.
The penthouse is as secure as any location can be in a building this exposed.
"Lana Pope will be here," Lucien says, watching me over the rim of his glass. "I assume you know that already."
"You mentioned eight guests."
"She'll be one of them." He walks to the windows, looks down at the city sprawling below. "This is her first time at a more... intimate gathering. I want her to feel welcomed. Included. Not watched."
The irony isn't lost on me. I've been watching her for two weeks. Following her surveillance footage, tracking her movements, standing outside her apartment like a ghost she doesn't know is haunting her. Lucien telling me not to watch her is like telling fire not to burn.
"What's my role tonight?" I ask.
"Present but unobtrusive. You'll join us for drinks before dinner, handle any logistics that arise, then excuse yourself before the meal.
I don't need you hovering. I need you available if needed.
" He turns from the window. "And Jax? If she asks about you—what you do, why you're here—be honest. Within limits. "
"What limits?"
"Tell her you handle security. Don't tell her you've been studying her like a problem you're trying to solve." His smile is all calculation with no warmth.
I should have known. The control center has cameras too—of course it does.
Lucien wouldn't leave his head of security unwatched, wouldn't trust anyone that completely.
He must have seen every replay I've pulled, every angle I've reviewed, every minute I've spent studying her when I had no operational reason to.
"We both know you're past professional observation. The question is whether you can still perform professionalism."
I should argue. Should tell him he's wrong, that I'm handling the assignment exactly as requested. But Lucien doesn't make statements he can't back up with evidence. If he knows I'm obsessed, it's because the obsession is visible.
"I can perform," I say.
"Good. Because tonight matters. Not just for her—for you.
" He finishes his scotch and sets the glass down with a soft click.
"The other guests are carefully chosen. Art collectors, philanthropists, people who move in circles adjacent to Gabriel Pope's.
They'll assess her. Judge whether she's recovered enough to be included or still too fragile to engage.
Your presence will add an interesting variable. "
"How?"
"You're younger than most of my associates. Attractive. Competent in ways that intimidate people who've never had to be competent at anything. She'll notice you. The question is how you handle being noticed."
The catering staff arrives at 6:30, followed by Lucien's assistant confirming final details.
I position myself near the entrance—close enough to monitor arrivals, far enough to avoid seeming intrusive.
By 7 PM, the first guests have arrived: an art dealer I recognize from The Dominion's exhibition last week, a venture capitalist Lucien's been cultivating, a married couple who own half the real estate in The Crest.
They circulate with champagne, making conversation that sounds intimate but is really just networking with better lighting.
I watch them display wealth and culture; the same show I've seen hundreds of times at The Dominion.
The routine should be boring. Instead, I'm calculating how each of these people will react to Lana, whether any of them knew Gabriel, and what judgments they're preparing to render.
At 7:43, my phone buzzes. Text from the car service: Arriving in two minutes.
My pulse kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with security protocols and everything to do with the fact that I'm about to be in the same room as the woman I've been obsessing over.
The woman whose apartment I know the location of, whose therapy appointments I could recite, and whose walking routes I've memorized.
The elevator chimes. The doors open.
And there she is.
The photographs don't do her justice. The surveillance footage doesn't capture the way she moves through space—precise and controlled, like she's calculating each step. She's wearing burgundy, and it transforms her from widow in black to woman in color. The shift is intentional. Significant.
Lucien crosses to greet her, takes her hand, and says very few words I'm too far away to hear. She smiles, the same practiced smile I've seen in every society photograph, but her eyes scan the room with the wariness of someone expecting threats.
They land on me.
For three seconds—I count them—Lana Pope looks directly at me across Lucien's penthouse. Her expression shifts, barely perceptible. Interest. Assessment. The way someone looks at a person they're meeting for the first time but instinctively recognizes as significant.
She doesn't know who I am. But she's noticed me.
Then Lucien guides her toward the other guests and the moment breaks.
I should move. Should circulate, should monitor the room the way I'm paid to do.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am, watching her navigate introductions with the same careful precision she uses for everything else.
The art dealer kisses her cheek, offers condolences about Gabriel that sound rehearsed.
The venture capitalist shakes her hand too long, his assessment predatory.
The married couple performs sympathy while their eyes critique her dress, her jewelry, and her positioning in Lucien's hierarchy.
She handles it all with grace that looks effortless but reads as exhausting. Every smile is calculated. Every response is measured. She’s acting the part of recovery for an audience that's waiting for her to break.
By 8 PM, all eight guests have arrived. Lucien gathers everyone in the main living area, champagne refilled, the city glittering beyond the windows like evidence of all the power in this room.
"Thank you for joining me tonight," Lucien says, his voice carrying that boardroom authority wrapped in warmth. "I wanted to gather people whose company I genuinely enjoy, whose perspectives I value. Tonight is about conversation, not business. Though I suspect the two will blur beautifully."
Polite laughter, agreement performed as enthusiasm.
"Before we move to dinner, let me introduce someone some of you haven't met formally.
" Lucien gestures toward me. "Jax Hills, my head of security.
He ensures The Dominion—and my other interests—remain secure.
Jax has been with me for two years. Before that, he worked in executive protection overseas.
If you ever need someone who's very good at keeping secrets, he's your man. "
The introduction is typical Lucien—information wrapped in implication. He's good at keeping secrets. Translation: He knows things about all of you, and he won't talk.
I nod acknowledgment but say nothing. Saying nothing is its own form of power.
Lana is watching me now with undisguised interest. Her eyes move across my face, cataloging details the way I've been cataloging hers. She's assessing. Determining threat level. Deciding whether I'm dangerous or just another man in Lucien's orbit.
"Jax," Lucien continues, "perhaps you'd like to introduce yourself properly. Tell us something we don't know."
It's a test. Everything with Lucien is a test.
I meet Lana's gaze directly when I speak. "I believe in watching carefully before acting. Most problems solve themselves if you're patient enough. The ones that don't usually require surgical precision."
"Surgical precision," the art dealer repeats, laughing nervously. "That sounds ominous."
"Only if you're the problem," I say.
More laughter, but uneasy now. They're not sure if I'm joking.
I'm not.
Lana's lips curve into the smallest smile. She knows I'm not joking either. And she's not afraid. She's interested.
Lucien orchestrates the pre-dinner hour with the precision of someone who's spent his life turning social gatherings into strategic exercises. Conversations shift and reform, champagne flows at calculated intervals, and I remain positioned near the windows where I can observe without participating.
Lana is good at this. Better than I expected.
She navigates the art dealer's aggressive networking with deflections that sound like engagement.
When the venture capitalist—Edward something, I should remember his name but I'm too focused on watching her hands curl around her champagne flute—asks about Gabriel's estate, she answers with exactly enough detail to satisfy without revealing.
"The lawyers are handling most of it. I'm focused on moving forward rather than looking back. "
The married couple exchanges a glance. Translation: She's cold, unfeeling and suspicious.
I want to tell them they're wrong. That the act of composure costs her more than they'll ever understand. That I've watched her through cameras for two weeks and every gesture of normalcy is calculated survival.