CHAPTER SIX LANA #3
"About three blocks back. Dark jacket, jeans, brown boots. He stayed behind me for maybe six blocks before I realized he was following. I took a turn into the crowd near the market, then ducked in here. He walked past the coffee shop about two minutes before you arrived."
"Height? Build?"
"Six feet, maybe slightly under. Athletic but not bulky. Carried himself like ex-military or law enforcement."
Jax's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts. Recognition, maybe. Or confirmation of a suspicion. "Stay here."
Then he's gone, moving through the coffee shop and back onto the street with the kind of purpose that makes people step aside without conscious thought. I watch through the window as he walks in the direction I came from, phone to his ear, scanning faces and doorways.
He returns seven minutes later. Sits across from me without asking permission.
"He's gone. But he was there. I found the position where he would have been when he walked past— a doorway half a block down, good sightlines on this entrance, easy exit in either direction.
" He pulls out his phone, shows me a photograph of the doorway.
"Professional surveillance. Someone hired him. "
My coffee has gone cold. I wrap my hands around the cup anyway. "How do you know I didn't imagine it?"
"Because I've been monitoring your routes for two weeks.
You're consistent—same subway car, same walking pace, same coffee shop on Tuesdays when you leave the office early.
Today you deviated. Changed direction abruptly, increased your pace, chose unfamiliar refuge.
" He sets down his phone. "That's not paranoia. That's threat response."
"You've been monitoring my routes." I say it flatly, letting the words sit between us. "For two weeks."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I can see him calculating how much truth to offer. Finally: "Because at first, Lucien asked me to. For obvious reasons, you're a patron he's invested in protecting. And because after that first night at The Dominion, I couldn't stop."
The honesty is brutal. Uncomfortable. Exactly what I needed to hear.
"So you're stalking me," I say.
"I'm watching you. There's a difference."
"Explain the difference. Because from where I'm sitting, they look identical."
"Stalking is about possession. Watching is about protection." He leans forward slightly, and the movement feels significant. "I'm not trying to own you, Lana. I'm trying to keep you safe from people who are trying to hurt you."
"Like the man who was following me today."
"Like him. Like whoever hired him. Like Gabriel's brother, who called you this morning and wants to meet Thursday for lunch at Marconi's."
My blood goes cold. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been monitoring your phone.
Texts, calls, voicemails. Nothing encrypted, nothing you've actively protected.
" He says it without shame, without apology.
"Ezra Pope is moving against you. Hiring investigators, building a case to contest the estate.
The man following you today was probably one of his contractors, documenting your movements for whatever narrative he's constructing. "
Part of me wants to be furious. Wants to be screaming at him about privacy, boundaries, the autonomy I've been desperately trying to reclaim.
Instead, I'm doing calculations. If Jax knows about Ezra's challenge, if he's been monitoring threats I didn't even realize existed, then his surveillance isn't parallel to Gabriel's control.
It's protection against threats Gabriel's death created.
The difference matters. Even if it shouldn't.
"You're monitoring my phone," I repeat, making sure I understand. "Reading my texts. Listening to my calls."
"Monitoring for keywords and patterns. I'm not reading everything—just flagging potential threats." He pauses. "But yes. I've been invading your privacy systematically since you first came to The Dominion. If you want me to stop, I will."
It's the offer that undoes me. Not the surveillance itself, but the fact that he's giving me choice. Admitting what he's done and then putting the decision in my hands.
Gabriel never gave me a choice. He just took what he wanted and called it care.
"If you stop," I say slowly, "will I be safe?"
"No. You'll just be unmonitored." His eyes are steady, unflinching.
"Ezra is coming for you. Maybe not physically, but legally, financially, whatever leverage he can find.
And if what I suspect is true—if Gabriel was involved in the kinds of things that get people killed—then you're not just dealing with a disgruntled brother-in-law.
You're dealing with people who can't afford for you to exist as a complication. "
"What things? What was Gabriel involved in?"
"I don't know yet. But Lucien does. Or suspects.
" He pulls his phone back out, pulls up something and shows me the screen.
It's a news article about The Glasshouse—the same name Solange mentioned this morning.
"Private intelligence network. Operates in legal gray zones.
Serves clients who need information or action that traditional channels won't provide.
Gabriel had connections there. Financial ties, meeting records, encrypted communications. "
I read the article, my pulse accelerating with each paragraph. The Glasshouse isn't just corporate espionage or background checks. It's the kind of organization that makes problems disappear, that trades in leverage and blackmail and consequences for people who become inconvenient.
"You think Gabriel was working with them," I say.
"I think Gabriel was funding them. Or funded by them.
The financial trail is complicated." Jax takes back his phone.
"But yes. And if he was, then his death threatens to expose connections that powerful people can't afford to have exposed.
Which makes you a liability. They see you as someone who knows too much, even if you don't know you know it. "
The coffee shop suddenly feels too exposed. Too vulnerable. I look around at the other patrons—students on laptops, couples having quiet conversations, the barista making drinks—and wonder if any of them are watching me. Documenting me. Building cases against me.
"I can't live like this," I say quietly. "Constantly looking over my shoulder. Wondering who's monitoring me and why."
"Then let me help." Jax's voice drops, becomes almost gentle. "I'm already watching. Already monitoring. Let me use that information to keep you ahead of whatever Ezra and his people are planning. Let me be the surveillance you know about instead of the surveillance you're afraid of."
It's seductive, the offer. The promise of protection wrapped in admission of violation. But there's a cost to accepting. There's always a cost.
"What do you get out of this?" I ask. "Why do you care whether Gabriel's widow survives his brother's legal challenge?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because watching you for two weeks showed me something I haven't felt in years.
Purpose that isn't just following orders.
Investment that isn't just professional obligation.
" He meets my eyes. "I don't know you, Lana.
Not really. But I recognize fracture when I see it.
And I'd rather help you hold the pieces together than watch you shatter. "
The admission costs him. I can see it in the tension around his mouth, the way his hands curl slightly on the table. He's revealing more than he intended, more than is safe.
I understand that impulse. I've been living in strategic revelation for five months.
"Okay," I say finally. "Help me, monitor me.
Do whatever you think is necessary to keep me safe from Ezra and whoever else is watching.
" I lean forward, make sure he's listening.
"But Jax? If this becomes control instead of protection—if you start making decisions for me instead of giving me information—I walk. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And I want transparency. No more discovering you've been tracking my phone or monitoring my apartment after the fact. You tell me what you're doing, why you're doing it, and you give me veto power."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Your apartment?"
I realize my mistake too late. "You haven't been monitoring my apartment?"
"Not yet. Lucien wants me to install surveillance there.
Said it was for your safety, that you'd be more secure if we could monitor threats in real-time.
" He tilts his head slightly. "I was planning to ask your permission first. Or at least tell you after installation. You just saved me a conversation."
The fact that he was going to tell me—that he wasn't planning to install cameras secretly and let me discover them later—shifts something.
Gabriel's surveillance was always discovery.
Punishment disguised as surprise. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?
Did you think you had privacy in our home?
Jax is offering me agency. Limited agency, conditional agency, but agency nonetheless.
"Install them," I say. "But I want to know where they are. And I want a monitor so I can see what you're seeing."
"That defeats the purpose of covert surveillance."
"I don't want covert. I want transparency." I hold his gaze. "You said the difference between stalking and protection is possession versus safety. Prove it. Give me access to the system. Let me see what you see."
He considers this, and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. This is a test. A boundary negotiation. He can either prove that his surveillance is truly protective, or reveal that it's just control with better marketing.
"Deal," he says finally. "I'll install the cameras tomorrow. Give you admin access to the system. You'll be able to see every feed, every alert, every piece of data I'm collecting." He pauses. "But Lana? If I see a threat, I'm acting on it. With or without your permission. That's non-negotiable."
"As long as you tell me why you're acting."
"Deal."
We sit there for a moment, two people who've just agreed to something that might save me or destroy us both. Then Jax stands, pulls out his wallet, leaves cash on the table for my drink.
"I'll walk you home," he says.
"I can walk myself."
"I know you can. But the man who was following you might still be in the area, and I'd rather confirm you reach your apartment safely than track your movement from a distance."
He's right. I hate that he's right. But accepting reality is part of survival.
We leave the coffee shop together. Walk the twelve blocks to my apartment building in the kind of silence that feels less uncomfortable than it should.
Jax maintains position slightly behind and to my right—protective placement, I realize, where he can intercept threats from most angles while keeping me in his peripheral vision.
At my building entrance, he stops. "I'll install the cameras tomorrow morning. Nine AM, if that works for you."
"I'll be at the foundation office by then."
"Then I'll text you when I'm done. Send you the access codes." He hesitates, then adds: "And Lana? About Thursday's lunch with Ezra. Don't go alone. Bring someone. Solange, a lawyer, anyone who can witness the conversation and back up your version if he tries to twist your words later."
"Solange already insisted on coming."
"Good. She's smart." Of course he knows who Solange is. I shouldn't be surprised—he's clearly been researching me. But hearing him say her name so casually, like he's already catalogued everyone in my life, sends a chill through me.
He turns to leave, then stops. "One more thing. If you need me—if anything happens, if you feel threatened, if you just want confirmation that I'm watching—text me. I'll respond immediately."
Then he's walking away, disappearing into the afternoon crowd, leaving me standing outside my apartment with the uncomfortable realization that I just invited surveillance into my life. Chose it and negotiated its terms.
Gabriel taught me to fear being watched.
Jax is teaching me that sometimes being watched is the only thing standing between survival and destruction.
I don't know which lesson is true yet.
But I know that I'm about to find out.