CHAPTER SEVEN JAX #2
"What did you expect?"
"Lip service. The appearance of control while you maintained actual access.
Gabriel used to do that—tell me I had choices, then structure situations so only one choice was viable.
" She takes a sip of coffee. "But you actually gave me admin privileges.
I could lock you out of the system entirely if I wanted. "
"You could. But you won't."
"Why are you so sure?"
"Because you need the protection more than you need the privacy.
And because you're smart enough to know that having someone watching who you've vetted is better than being watched by people you haven't.
" I lean back against the booth. "Plus, you invited me to lunch.
People who want to lock out their surveillance don't buy lunch for the person doing the surveilling. "
Her lips curve into a small smile. "Fair point. Though maybe I'm just trying to understand my watcher. Keep your enemies close and all that."
"Am I your enemy?"
"I don't know what you are yet." She sets down her coffee. "That's part of why I wanted to talk. Thursday's lunch with Ezra—I'm worried about it."
"You have reason to be. He's not inviting you for nostalgia."
"I know. Solange will be there, at a different table.
But I'm wondering..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
"Would you be willing to be there too? Not at my table—that would escalate things.
But close enough that if Ezra tries something, if he becomes threatening, there's someone who can intervene? "
I keep my expression neutral even though Lucien already gave me this exact assignment. "I can be there. Close enough to monitor, far enough to avoid escalating tension."
Relief crosses her face. "Thank you. I know it's asking a lot—"
"It's not. It's smart threat management." I lean back against the booth. "Multiple observers means multiple perspectives. Harder for Ezra to manipulate the narrative if three people can contradict his version."
"You've done this before. Managed situations where someone's trying to construct false narratives."
It's not a question. She's stating fact, making an educated guess about my background. I could deflect, could maintain professional distance. But lunch at Stella's isn't professional distance. It's two people negotiating what honesty looks like.
"I've done it before," I confirm. "Different contexts, different stakes. But the principle is the same—document everything, maintain witnesses, never allow yourself to be isolated with someone who's building a case against you."
"Gabriel used to isolate me." She says it matter-of-factly, without self-pity. "Dinners where I didn't know anyone, events where he'd abandon me with strangers, then criticize how I handled myself later. It was a test I could never pass because passing wasn't the point. Failing was."
The server arrives with our food. We're both quiet while she sets down plates, refills coffee, and retreats. Then Lana picks up her spoon, stirs her soup without eating.
"I'm telling you this," she continues, "because I need you to understand what I'm walking into Thursday.
Ezra is Gabriel's brother. He learned the same manipulation tactics.
He'll be charming, concerned, and reasonable.
And underneath that, he'll be documenting every reaction, every word, every hesitation. Building his case."
"Then we build ours first." I take a bite of my sandwich, buying time to organize my thoughts. "What's your legal position? What does the will actually say?"
"Everything to me. No contingencies, no conditions. Gabriel updated it two years into our marriage. His attorney—Malcolm Fielding—assured me it's ironclad."
"Malcolm Fielding, who sent you the text about irregularities."
"The same. Which suggests either he's being pressured by Ezra, or he's found something that actually compromises the estate distribution.
" She finally tastes her soup. "Solange thinks Gabriel was involved in things that would expose powerful people if investigated publicly.
Financial crimes, maybe worse. She's been decoding his encrypted files. "
This aligns with what Lucien told me. Gabriel Pope wasn't just a venture capitalist with controlling tendencies. He was connected to networks that operate in shadows, that trade in information and leverage and consequences.
"The Glasshouse," I say.
Her head snaps up. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been investigating Gabriel since Lucien assigned me to watch you.
Following financial trails, encrypted communications, meeting records.
Gabriel had ties to The Glasshouse—funding, maybe more.
If that comes out during estate proceedings, people who can't afford exposure will move to contain it. "
"Contain it how?"
"However necessary. Discredit you. Eliminate evidence. Worst case—" I stop myself, but she finishes the thought.
"Worst case, eliminate me." She sets down her spoon, and I can see her processing this reality. "You're saying I'm not just fighting Ezra over money. I'm fighting to stay alive."
"I'm saying you're a complication in a system that doesn't tolerate complications.
And the people managing that system will choose the solution that minimizes exposure.
" I lean forward. "That's why Lucien assigned me to protect you.
Not just because you're a valuable patron.
Because if something happens to you—if Ezra succeeds, if The Glasshouse moves against you—it brings attention to connections Lucien can't afford to be examined. Your survival protects his interests."
"So he's not only protecting me. He's also protecting himself."
"He's protecting his empire. You're part of that calculation." I hold her gaze. "But that doesn't mean the protection isn't real. Lucien needs you alive and stable. That aligns with what you need too."
She's quiet for a long moment, absorbing implications. Then: "And you? Why are you protecting me? Is it just because Lucien pays you?"
It’s the question I've been avoiding since I followed her home. The answer that determines whether I'm Elias's cautionary tale or something different.
"At first, yes. It was a professional obligation.
An assignment." I hold her gaze. "Then I spent two weeks watching you pretend to be a recovering widow for people who don't deserve the effort.
Watching you count rotations and steps and the cost of every decision.
Watching you live in an apartment you haven't unpacked because you're still deciding whether surviving Gabriel was worth the guilt of how he died. "
Her expression does that thing I've learned to recognize—shuttering, protecting, preparing for judgment.
"And that made you want to protect me?" she asks quietly. "Watching me fall apart in carefully controlled increments?"
"That made me recognize myself. The performance.
The counting. The hollow place where purpose used to be.
" I lean back, giving her space. "I've spent two years behind cameras, watching people instead of engaging with them.
Telling myself distance is safety. You're the first person who made me want to step out from behind the lens. "
"That's not protection. That's projection."
She studies me for a long time. Then: "Elias Voss. The man I met at the exhibition. He's your mentor, isn't he?"
The shift surprises me. "He was. How did you know?"
"I looked him up after the exhibition. Former intelligence contractor, now semi-retired, runs security consulting.
His client list included Lucien Armitage until about three years ago.
" She picks up her spoon again and tastes her soup.
"Then you showed up working for Lucien. The timeline matches.
And the way you talk about distance and engagement—it sounds like someone who was trained by a person who learned those lessons the hard way. "
"He asked me what I saw when I looked at that photograph. The Drop. Like he was testing whether I'd be honest or perform."
"That's Elias. He's always testing."
"And you learned from him. Which means you're testing me too. Watching to see if I'm worth whatever risk you're taking by protecting me."
She's more perceptive than I gave her credit for. "Everyone tests everyone. The question is whether the test is hostile or curious."
"Which is yours?"
"Curious." I finish my sandwich and drink coffee that's gone lukewarm.
"I'm curious whether you killed Gabriel.
I'm curious whether you remember doing it.
I'm curious what you'll do if Ezra pushes you hard enough on Thursday.
I'm curious if you'll let me help you or if you'll run the moment protection starts feeling like control. "
"And if I killed him?" She asks it directly, unflinching. "If I pushed Gabriel off that terrace knowing exactly what I was doing—does that change your protection?"
The honest answer is complicated. The professional answer is clear.
"If you killed him in self-defense, if you were protecting yourself from escalating violence, then no.
It doesn't change anything." I meet her eyes.
"But if you killed him in cold calculation, if you planned it and executed it and the memory gaps are convenient fiction—then I need to know.
Because protecting someone who's dangerous is different from protecting someone who's in danger. "
"Why?"
"Because dangerous people require containment. People in danger require defense. The tactics are different."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "I don't know which one I am.
That's the truth. I remember fragments—the fight, the rain, his hands on me, and the fall.
But I can't sequence them. Can't determine if I pushed or if he slipped or if my hands were trying to save him and failed.
The police ruled it accidental. I told myself that was enough. "
"But it's not."