CHAPTER SEVEN JAX #3
"No." She sets down her spoon again, finally finished pretending to eat. "It's not. Because if I killed him deliberately, I need to know. I need to own it. Need to decide if I'm the kind of person who can live with that."
Saying it takes something from her. I can see it in the tension around her mouth, the way her hands curl slightly on the table. She's revealing more than intended, testing whether I'll recoil or stay.
I stay.
"Then we figure it out together," I say. "Reconstruct that night. Find evidence, witnesses, anything that clarifies what actually happened. Not because I'm judging whether you deserve protection. Because you deserve to know the truth about yourself."
Her eyes go bright, almost wet. She blinks it away quickly. "Why would you help me do that?"
"Because watching you carry uncertainty like a death sentence is worse than knowing you're a killer." I lean forward again. "At least killers have clarity. You're in limbo. And limbo destroys people more effectively than any verdict."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're very good at this. Making surveillance sound like care. Making investigation sound like intimacy."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"I don't know. That's the problem." She meets my eyes.
"You installed cameras in my apartment this morning.
You're tracking my phone, monitoring my movements, watching everything I do.
Gabriel did all those things too. He said it was because he loved me, because he wanted me safe.
And I believed him until I realized love and control were the same word in his vocabulary. "
The comparison lands like accusation. She's not wrong. The parallels between my surveillance and Gabriel's are uncomfortable.
"The difference," I say carefully, "is that you can end this anytime. Revoke my access, change your locks, tell me to stop. I'll comply. Gabriel wouldn't have."
"You say that now. But what happens when I'm more important to you than compliance? When protecting me becomes more important than respecting my choices?"
It's another question I've been avoiding. At what point does protection become possession?
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'm trying to build boundaries that prevent that. Transparency, consent, giving you control over the surveillance. If I start crossing lines you haven't approved, call me on it. Make me accountable."
"And if calling you on it isn't enough?"
"Then you're right. I'm just Gabriel with better marketing. And you run."
We sit in the aftermath of that admission—the acknowledgment that I might become what I'm claiming to protect her from. The restaurant continues around us, other diners eating lunch, having normal conversations about normal problems. We're pretending to be normal too, but the pretense is thin.
Lana breaks the tension first. "Tell me about Elias. How you ended up working for him."
The request surprises me. "Why does that matter?"
"Because if I'm trusting you to protect me, I need to understand how you learned protection.
Whether it was taught as control or as something else.
" She pushes the soup bowl aside and leans on the table.
"And because you've been investigating every aspect of my life for two weeks. Turnabout seems fair."
She's right. I've cataloged her routines, her therapy appointments, her coffee preferences. She knows almost nothing about me beyond what Lucien presented at dinner.
"I was nineteen when Elias found me," I start. "Working private security for a company that hired people who were good at following orders and not asking questions. I was very good at both. Elias saw potential for something more refined."
"Refined how?"
"Intelligence work. Situations that required discretion more than force.
Problems that needed solving quietly." I drink cold coffee, choosing my words carefully.
"Elias ran operations in legal gray zones.
Not everything he did would look good in court transcripts, but his clients paid for results, not ethics. "
"You're being vague."
"I'm being careful. Some things shouldn't be discussed in public restaurants between people who've known each other for two weeks.
" I meet her eyes. "Let's just say I was good at surveillance and planning.
Less good at other aspects of the work. Elias realized I fit better in roles that didn't require certain. .. commitments."
She studies me, reading between the lines. "That's why you don't carry a gun. You're uncomfortable with that level of involvement."
"I prefer keeping people safe through information and preparation.
Violence is a last resort, not a first option.
" I lean back. "Elias sent me overseas partly for training, partly to get distance from work I wasn't suited for.
When I came back, the operation had evolved.
Cleaner. More of what I could live with. "
"So, when you came back. You started working for Lucien, who operates in similar spaces."
"Yes, because Elias asked me to. Said Lucien was different—building something legitimate, not just protecting criminals from consequences." I meet her eyes. "I'm still determining whether he was right about that."
"And if he wasn't? If Lucien is just another version of the men you protected before?"
"Then I made a mistake trusting Elias's judgment." I lean forward again. "But that doesn't change you. Protecting you isn't about Lucien's legitimacy. It's about keeping someone safe who deserves safety."
"You don't know if I deserve safety. You don't know what I did."
"I know you survived five years with Gabriel Pope. That's enough."
Her expression does something complicated—surprise, maybe gratitude, maybe disbelief. "You're making a lot of assumptions about my marriage based on surveillance footage and intuition."
"I'm making assessments based on evidence.
The way you positioned yourself at Lucien's dinner—back to the wall so you had clear exits.
The therapy appointments twice a week with someone who specializes in trauma recovery.
The apartment you haven't unpacked five months after leaving your husband's estate.
" I count them off. "Those aren't assumptions.
Those are patterns of someone who escaped something dangerous. "
"Or patterns of someone guilty. Running from what she did rather than what was done to her."
"If you were running from guilt, you wouldn't have stayed in Miramont. You'd have disappeared, started over somewhere nobody knew Gabriel's name." I hold her gaze. "You're not running. You're rebuilding. There's a difference."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Solange said something similar. That staying was brave. I told her it wasn't bravery, just inertia. I'm too tired to run."
"Inertia doesn't start foundations. Doesn't try to fight estate challenges.
Doesn't show up to Lucien's dinners knowing you'll be assessed and judged.
" I gesture at her half-eaten lunch. "You're not operating on inertia.
You're operating on determination to become someone other than Gabriel's widow. That's the opposite of running."
"You're very good at reframing narratives. Making survival sound heroic instead of just... continued existence."
"Maybe both are true. Maybe surviving Gabriel was heroic and continuing to exist requires daily courage you're too close to recognize."
She studies me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. I don't. Looking away would be retreating, and retreating would confirm that this conversation has become more personal than professional.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks finally. "Not the protection—I understand tactical reasoning. But this. Sitting here, telling me I'm heroic, reframing my damage as strength. What do you get from that?"
The answer I give her will determine what this becomes. Professional relationship. Something more. Or the beginning of the obsession everyone keeps warning me about.
I choose honesty.
"Two years behind cameras taught me that distance is just another word for isolation.
That competence without connection is just high-functioning emptiness.
" I lean forward, closing the space between us.
"You make me want to be present instead of absent.
Engaged instead of observing. That's terrifying and necessary in equal measure. "
"That's not protection. That's need."
"Maybe need is what makes protection real. Maybe caring whether you survive is what separates security from surveillance."
"Or maybe caring too much is what turns protection into possession." Her voice is firm but not unkind. "Gabriel cared whether I survived. He just cared more about controlling how I survived than respecting my autonomy in the process."
The comparison stings because it's accurate. "Then help me avoid becoming that. Like I said, tell me when I'm crossing lines. Make me accountable to boundaries you set, not boundaries I assume."
"And if I set boundaries you can't accept?"
"Then I step back. Let someone else protect you. Prove that caring doesn't have to mean controlling."
She's quiet for a long time, studying me like I'm a problem she's trying to solve. Then: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'll hold you to everything we agreed yesterday.
Transparency, veto power, no decisions made for me.
" She meets my eyes. "But I want to add one more thing: regular check-ins.
We meet weekly—like this, neutral territory—and assess how the protection is working.
If either of us feels it's becoming something else, we adjust or end it. No questions, no guilt."
"Weekly check-ins. Agreed." I lean forward. "And I'll add one more: if you ever feel unsafe with me, if anything I do makes you feel controlled instead of protected, you tell Elias. Give him veto power over my involvement."
Her eyebrows rise. "Why Elias?"
"Because he'll see patterns I'm too close to recognize. Because giving someone else authority to remove me from your protection is the only way to prove I'm not building another cage."
She nods slowly. "Okay. We have an agreement."
We shake hands across the table—formal, contractual, the way people do when they're negotiating business relationships. But the touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, and we both feel the charge.
The server returns with the check. Lana reaches for it immediately.
"My treat, remember?" She pulls out her wallet before I can argue.
"You don't need to do that. This isn't—"
"A transaction? I know. But you installed cameras in my apartment this morning, configured a system that gives me more control than most security professionals would allow, and just agreed to attend Thursday's lunch as backup.
Let me buy you a sandwich." She hands the server her card.
"Besides, if we're meeting weekly, we should establish that this is mutual.
Not you providing service while I passively receive protection. "
The distinction matters to her. I can see it in the firmness of her tone, the way she won't let me take the check.
"Okay," I say. "Your treat. But next time is mine."
"Deal." She signs the receipt when the server returns. "Equality in lunch payments if nothing else."
We leave Stella's together, step out onto streets that are busier now, the lunch crowd dispersing back to offices and obligations. The afternoon is cool, September settling into the kind of clarity that makes everything look sharper than it is.
"Thursday," Lana says as we pause on the sidewalk. "Marconi's, 1 PM. You'll be there?"
"I'll be there. Different table, close enough to monitor. If Ezra becomes threatening, I'll intervene."
"And if he's just manipulative? Psychologically aggressive but not physically dangerous?"
"Then I'll document everything. Record the conversation if you're wearing audio. Build our case while he builds his."
"Audio recording without consent is illegal in Miramont."
"It's complicated. Miramont follows one-party consent—if you're part of the conversation and wearing the device, it's technically legal.
But Ezra's lawyers might argue differently if it ever goes to court.
" I pull out my phone. "The better approach: I'll give you a device from my own equipment.
Small and discreet. We can meet tomorrow to configure it, test the upload system, and make sure you're comfortable wearing it. "
She considers this. "Tomorrow works. Where?"
"Your apartment. I can check the camera system simultaneously, make sure everything's functioning properly." I pocket my phone. "And we'll run through what to expect from Ezra—his likely script, pressure tactics, how to respond without giving him ammunition."
"A rehearsal."
"Preparation. Going in blind gives him advantage. Going in prepared means you control the narrative."
"And if he has evidence? If he's found something that actually compromises my claim to the estate?"
"Then we deal with reality instead of speculation. But Lana?" I step closer, lowering my voice. "Whatever he's found, whatever he threatens you with Thursday—you're not facing it alone. That's the point of protection. Shared burden instead of isolated threat."
She nods, but I can see the fear underneath her composure. Fear of Ezra, fear of exposure, fear that Gabriel's death will be examined closely enough to reveal gaps in her memory as lies instead of trauma.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says finally. "And Jax? Thank you. For the cameras, for lunch, for agreeing to conditions most security professionals would reject as compromising their authority."
"Authority without accountability is just control. I've had enough of that." I step back, giving her space. "Text me if anything happens. Anything at all. I'll respond immediately."
Then she's walking away, back toward the foundation office, leaving me standing on the sidewalk calculating how many lines I've already crossed and how many more I'll cross before this ends.
My phone buzzes with a text from Elias: We need to talk. Tomorrow, 7 PM. My place.
It's not a request.
Tomorrow at seven means I'll need to talk to Lucien about coming in late, or taking the evening off entirely. He won't like it, but he'll understand when I tell him it's Elias.
I text Elias back: I'll be there.
I pocket my phone and head back to my apartment.
I need to locate the recording device I promised Lana, test its upload system, and prepare for tomorrow morning's installation at her apartment.
Then there's Thursday's prep—reviewing Ezra Pope's background, mapping Marconi's layout, identifying optimal surveillance positions. And tomorrow evening, Elias.
The work stacks up, but the hollow place in my chest feels slightly less empty because I'm protecting someone who matters, compared to just watching the world happen to people I may never meet.