CHAPTER FIVE JAX #2
But that would require explaining how I know, which would require explaining surveillance I shouldn't be conducting, which would unravel everything Lucien has carefully constructed tonight.
So I stay where I am and watch. I count the number of times she glances in my direction when she thinks no one is looking. Seven times in forty minutes. Each glance lasting between two and four seconds. She's curious and determining whether I'm dangerous or just decorative.
At 8:47, Lucien catches my attention with the slightest tilt of his head. Time to circulate. Time to be present but unobtrusive, the impossible balance he's always demanding.
I move through the room, refilling champagne, answering logistical questions, playing the role of competent functionary. The guests barely register my presence except as service. They're good at making people invisible.
Then I'm standing next to Lana.
Up close, she's smaller than the surveillance footage suggested. More present. The cameras flatten her into pixels and light, but here—inches away, close enough to smell whatever perfume she's wearing, something subtle and expensive—she's three-dimensional in ways that make my chest constrict.
"More champagne?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral, professional.
She looks up at me and I realize my mistake. Looking into her eyes through a monitor is nothing like looking into them in person. The camera can't capture the intelligence there, the exhaustion hiding beneath perfect makeup, the way she's studying me with the same intensity I've been studying her.
"Please." She holds out her glass. Our fingers don't touch when I take it, but the near-miss feels charged anyway.
I cross to the bar, refill her glass from the bottle the catering staff left chilling. The task takes maybe thirty seconds. When I return, she's still looking at me.
"Thank you." She accepts the glass, sips. "Jax, was it?"
"Yes."
"Unusual name."
"Short for Jackson. I prefer the abbreviation."
"Control," she says, and something in her expression shifts. "You like having control over how people address you."
It's an observation that cuts too close to truth. "I like clarity. Abbreviations are clearer."
"Are they?" Her lips curve into that same small smile from earlier. "Or do they just create the illusion of simplicity while hiding complexity?"
Before I can answer—before I can figure out how to answer without revealing that she's just described exactly what I've been doing for two years—the art dealer interrupts.
Wants Lana's opinion on a piece she's considering for acquisition.
She excuses herself with a polite nod, leaves me standing there holding a bottle of champagne like an idiot.
Lucien appears beside me. "Interesting conversation."
"Brief conversation."
"She's drawn to you. Did you notice?" He doesn't wait for confirmation. "The way she looks at you—it's different from how she looks at everyone else. Less performed. More genuine."
"She's being polite."
"Lana Pope doesn't do polite. She does careful.
There's a difference." He takes the champagne bottle from my hand, sets it on a nearby table.
"After dinner, I'd like you to give her a tour of the building's security.
Show her the panic room on this floor, explain the protocols. Frame it as concern for her safety."
"Why?"
"Because she needs to trust someone who isn't me. And because you need to interact with her as a person, not a surveillance subject." His tone sharpens slightly. "You've been watching her for two weeks. Now I'm asking you to actually talk to her. Think you can manage that?"
It's another test. Everything is a test with Lucien.
"When?" I ask.
"After dessert. Around 10 PM. I'll suggest it naturally—concerned host ensuring his guest feels secure. You'll take it from there." He pauses. "And Jax? This isn't surveillance. This is conversation. Try to remember the difference."
He walks away before I can respond and rejoins his guests with the ease of someone who's never doubted his place in any room.
I retreat to my position near the windows.
I watch Lana continue her role as a recovering widow for people who are really just pretending to be concerned.
The dinner itself happens in the formal dining room—a space I helped design the security for, all reinforced glass and strategic sightlines.
I'm not expected to join them, which is relief and disappointment in equal measure.
Instead, I spend ninety minutes in the living area, monitoring building security feeds on my phone, responding to routine check-ins from The Dominion's night staff, and absolutely not thinking about how Lana Pope's perfume smells like something I want to memorize.
At 9:58, I hear laughter from the dining room.
Dinner is ending. Guests will migrate back to the living area for coffee and whatever final networking Lucien has planned.
Then I'll have my assignment: show Lana the panic room, explain security protocols, have an actual conversation instead of just watching her through cameras.
The prospect terrifies me more than any protection detail I've ever worked.
The guests emerge in clusters. The venture capitalist is already making exit noises—early morning meeting, long drive, the usual excuses. The married couple lingers near Lucien, clearly hoping for a private word. The art dealer has cornered someone else, still networking even at 10 PM.
And Lana is standing alone near the windows, looking down at the city with an expression I recognize from surveillance footage. Exhaustion. The night of putting on an act is wearing her down.
This is my moment. Lucien is occupied, the other guests are distracted, and she's isolated in a way that makes approaching her seem natural instead of calculated.
I cross the room. Stop beside her at a distance that's professional but not distant. "The view is better from the panic room."
She turns, surprised. "I'm sorry?"
"The panic room. It's on the north side of the penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows but with reinforced glass that can withstand small arms fire.
Lucien had it designed when he renovated.
" I gesture toward the hallway. "He mentioned you might want to see the security features. In case you ever need to use them."
Her expression does something complicated. "In case I need to hide in a bulletproof room in Lucien Armitage's penthouse."
"In case you need options." I keep my voice even. "Security is about having choices before you need them."
She studies me for a long moment. Then: "Show me."
I lead her away from the main gathering, down a hallway lined with art that probably costs more than I'll earn in my lifetime.
The panic room is accessed through what looks like a regular door but is actually reinforced steel disguised as wood.
I key in the code—eight digits, changed weekly—and the lock disengages with a soft click.
Inside, the space is surprisingly comfortable.
Small sitting area, stockpiled supplies, communication equipment wired to bypass any potential building-wide outage.
And those windows. Three walls of glass overlooking Miramont from heights that make the city look like a circuit board of light and shadow.
"This is excessive," Lana says, but she's moving toward the windows like she's drawn to them.
"Lucien doesn't do half measures." I stay near the door, maintaining distance. "The room is designed to sustain two people for seventy-two hours. Water, food, medical supplies, satellite phone. If something happens—fire, breach, any kind of emergency—this is the safest place in the building."
"And you designed this?" She's looking at me now, not the windows.
"I consulted on it. The actual design was architects and security specialists. I just made sure it would work in practice, not just theory."
"The difference being?"
"Theory assumes people follow protocols.
Practice accounts for panic." I lean against the doorframe, keeping my body language relaxed even though every nerve is alert.
"Most security failures happen because people don't know what to do when fear takes over.
This room is designed to make the right choice the easiest choice. "
She nods, processing. Then: "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone less..." She searches for the word. "Thoughtful. Most security people I've met treat protection as a theatrical performance. Showing off guns and muscles and intimidation. You're different."
"I don't carry a gun." It's true. I haven't carried one since returning from overseas. The weapon made me feel too much like Elias's enforcer, too much like the person I was trying to stop being.
Her eyebrows rise. "Head of security for Lucien Armitage's empire and you don't carry?"
"I carry knowledge. That's more dangerous than any weapon." I straighten from the doorframe. "Knowing where the threats are before they arrive. Knowing which exits to use. Knowing who to trust and who to avoid. That keeps people safer than any gun."
"And do you know?" she asks quietly. "Who to trust?"
The question lands like a challenge. Like she's testing whether I'll be honest or perform the role Lucien expects.
I choose honesty. "In this city? Almost no one. In this room?" I hold her gaze. "I'm still deciding."
She doesn't look away. Doesn't retreat. Just stands there in Lucien's bulletproof panic room, wearing burgundy, looking at me like I'm a problem she's trying to solve.
"I should get back," she says finally. "Before people start wondering where I've gone."
"They're wondering already. That's what people do." I step aside so she can pass. "But wondering isn't the same as knowing. And knowing isn't the same as acting."
She pauses in the doorway, close enough that I can smell her perfume again. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her. "You talk like someone who's spent a lot of time watching people."
"I have."