CHAPTER NINE JAX #3
"You think I need this much structure?" I ask.
"I think you're developing feelings for someone you're supposed to be protecting professionally.
That requires more structure than usual.
" He sits back down. "Rule four is the most important.
If you feel yourself wanting to cross the room, wanting to defend her, wanting to stop Ezra from speaking—you text me.
Immediately. I'll respond within seconds and remind you why intervention would compromise her case. "
"You'll be available during the lunch?"
"I'll make myself available. That's what mentorship means." He refills his glass. "But Jax? If you violate these rules tomorrow, if you let your personal feelings compromise her safety or legal position, I'm calling Lucien. I'll recommend he pull you from the assignment. Permanently. Understood?"
The ultimatum is clear. Elias can't directly remove me—Lucien is my employer—but his recommendation would carry weight. Lucien trusts Elias's judgment about when protectors become liabilities.
"Understood," I say.
"Good." He sips his scotch. "Now tell me about the recording setup. What kind of device are you using?"
"Audio only. Small enough to be discreet. Uploads to a secure server in real-time, with local storage as backup if connection fails."
"What form does it take? Body wire? Button?"
"Jewelry. A pendant necklace. Microphone integrated into the design."
Elias nods slowly, and something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe resignation. "Of course. Which means you had to deliver it personally. Configure it. Probably help her put it on."
The accuracy is unsettling. "The device needed to be tested for fit and function."
"The device needed to be handed to her with instructions.
You chose to make it intimate." He sets down his glass.
"I'm not criticizing the choice. I'm pointing out that you're already crossing into physical proximity that goes beyond professional necessity.
Tomorrow, when you're watching her across a restaurant being psychologically attacked, that intimacy is going to make objectivity nearly impossible. "
He's right. This morning in Lana's kitchen, standing behind her with my hands at her neck, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers—that wasn't purely tactical. That was want that’s disguised as preparation.
And tomorrow, watching Ezra try to destroy her, I'll be fighting the urge to cross the restaurant and end the conversation with force.
"So I maintain distance tomorrow," I say. "Follow your rules. Document instead of defend."
"You try to maintain distance. But you also need to be honest about what's happening." Elias leans forward. "Have you told her? That you're attracted to her?"
"She knows I'm invested. I've been honest about that."
"Investment isn't the same as attraction.
You can be invested in a client's welfare without wanting to touch them.
" His tone is direct, pushing past my deflection.
"I'm asking if you've told her plainly: I'm attracted to you, this complicates our professional relationship, here's how I'm managing those feelings. "
The idea of that conversation makes my chest tighten. "Why does she need to know?"
"Because honesty is the only thing that keeps protection from becoming possession.
If you're hiding your attraction, you're operating from deception.
And deception—even well-intentioned deception—is how control starts.
" He stands and walks to the window. "With Mara, I spent months telling myself I was just protecting her.
That my feelings were irrelevant as long as I kept her safe.
But those hidden feelings informed every decision I made.
Every boundary I set was shaped by what I wanted, not what she needed. "
"And telling her changed that?"
"Telling her gave her information to make informed choices about our relationship.
About whether she wanted protection from someone who was attracted to her, or whether that dynamic was too complicated given her history.
" He turns back to me. "Lana deserves the same information.
Not after you've spent weeks surveilling her and getting more entangled.
Now. After tomorrow's lunch, when you've proven you can maintain professional boundaries under pressure. "
The timeline he's proposing feels rushed and terrifying. "And if she doesn't want personal involvement? If she just wants professional protection?"
"Then you respect that. Tell Lucien you need to transition her case to someone else because your personal feelings compromise your objectivity.
" He returns to his chair. "But Jax? I don't think she wants purely professional.
The way you described your interactions—the proximity, the negotiated boundaries—that doesn't sound one-sided. "
The observation lands with uncomfortable hope. "You think she's attracted to me?"
"I think she's aware of you in ways that go beyond tolerating necessary surveillance.
Whether that's attraction or just responding to your attention, I can't say.
But she deserves the chance to name what this is becoming.
" He finishes his scotch. "Tell her after tomorrow.
Be direct. Accept whatever answer she gives.
That's the only way this doesn't become Gabriel in a different form. "
I nod, committing to a conversation I'm terrified to have. "Anything else?"
"Yes. After tomorrow's lunch, you debrief with me first. Before you see Lana, before you process the recording, you call me.
Tell me what happened, how you're feeling, whether you violated any rules.
External accountability before emotional processing.
" He stands, signaling the conversation is ending.
"That's non-negotiable. If you go straight to her, if you let the adrenaline and protective instinct take over before you've grounded yourself, you'll say or do things you'll regret. "
"Understood."
He walks me to the door, and I step out into the evening. The temperature has dropped, September giving way to October's edge.
"Text me tomorrow if you need talking down," Elias says. "And Jax? Remember rule three. Let her fight her own battles. She's stronger than you think."
The drive back to my apartment takes twenty-three minutes. I spend them thinking about Elias's rules, about tomorrow's lunch, about the honest conversation I'm supposed to have with Lana about attraction I've been hiding behind professional obligation.
At home, I pull out my laptop, review tomorrow's logistics one final time. Marconi's layout, table positioning, exit routes. Then I pull up Lana's apartment camera feeds.
She's home. I can see her moving through her living room, carrying something—a mug, probably. She's changed into what looks like pajamas, hair down, the necklace no longer visible. She must have taken it off after I left, stored it somewhere safe for tomorrow.
I watch her settle onto her couch with the mug and pull her knees up. She's looking at something on her phone, probably reviewing notes for tomorrow's attorney meeting.
This is the line. The cameras exist for threat monitoring—checking for breaches, unfamiliar visitors, signs of forced entry. What they don't exist for is watching her private moments, cataloging how she moves through her space when she thinks no one is observing.
I do a security sweep. Check each feed systematically: entrance shows no activity in the hallway, kitchen is empty, living room shows her on the couch with her phone. No threats. No anomalies. The apartment is secure.
The professional assessment takes thirty seconds.
But I'm still watching. Watching the way she pulls her knees up, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over her phone, the domestic intimacy of seeing her in pajamas instead of the professional armor she wears for the world.
This is where professional surveillance crosses into personal voyeurism. The threat assessment is complete. Continuing to watch serves no security purpose.
I close the laptop. The feeds stay active—motion alerts will notify me if someone approaches her door, if there's any unusual activity. But I won't sit here watching her exist in private space.
That's the distinction. Monitoring for threats versus watching because I want to see her. The first is protection. The second is possession.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lana: Are you still awake?
I respond immediately: Yes. Everything okay?
Fine. Just nervous about tomorrow. All of it.
That's normal. You're walking into hostile territory.
Will you really be there? At the restaurant?
The question suggests she needs reassurance more than tactical confirmation. I'll be there. Different table, monitoring everything. You're not alone in this.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: Thank you. For the preparation. For the necklace. For not making me feel crazy for being afraid.
You're not crazy. You're appropriately cautious about someone who wants to discredit you. I pause, then add: Get some sleep. Tomorrow requires energy you won't have if you're exhausted.
Says the man who probably hasn't slept properly in weeks.
The observation is accurate enough to sting. Fair point. I'll try to sleep if you will.
Deal. Goodnight, Jax.
Goodnight, Lana.
I set down my phone and stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking about proximity and boundaries and the fact that I'll spend tomorrow watching someone I'm attracted to be interrogated by someone who wants to destroy her.
The urge to intervene will be overwhelming.
The need to protect will conflict with the tactical necessity of letting her handle the psychological warfare herself.
Elias's rules are in my pocket. I pull them out, read them again:
1. Document, don't intervene. Your job is witness, not defender.
2. Physical danger only. Psychological attacks are not emergencies.
3. Let her fight her own battles. She's stronger than you think.
4. If you feel the urge to intervene, text me first. I'll talk you down.
5. After the lunch, debrief with me before you debrief with her. External accountability before emotional processing.
I photograph the list, set it as my phone's lock screen. Visual reminder every time I check my phone tomorrow. Reinforcement of boundaries I'll be tempted to cross.
Sleep comes eventually. I dream about cameras and courtrooms and Lana standing in front of Ezra Pope while I watch from behind glass, unable to reach her, unable to help, forced to witness rather than defend.
In the dream, she looks at me through the glass and mouths: This is what protection looks like.
I wake at 5:47 AM with those words still echoing. This is what protection looks like. Distance. Documentation. Letting someone fight their own battles while providing infrastructure for safety but not intervening in psychological warfare.
It's the hardest form of protection. Also the most necessary.
I spend the morning preparing. I review Ezra's background one more time.
Confirm the recording system is functioning properly—the receiving end is operational, ready for when Lana activates the necklace before lunch.
Pack the equipment I might need: backup phone, portable charger, notes on Ezra's likely tactics.
At 11:30 AM, I text Lana: How did the attorney meeting go?
Her response comes fifteen minutes later: Better than expected. Mira Keaton is fierce. She thinks we have a strong case if Ezra tries formal proceedings.
Good. And you're ready for lunch?
As ready as I can be. Wearing the necklace. Solange is meeting me there in twenty minutes.
I'll be there at 12:45. Table near the back, clear sightlines. Remember—stay calm, stay honest, let him reveal his intentions.
Her response is a single emoji: the flexed bicep. Strength. Determination. Humor despite fear.
I arrive at Marconi's at exactly 12:45 PM.
The restaurant is everything Gabriel's family would choose—old money aesthetics, expensive minimalism, the kind of place where power is shown through understatement.
I take a table near the back wall with a clear view of the entrance and the section where Ezra will likely seat himself.
Solange arrives at 12:53 PM. I recognize her immediately—I've seen her in enough photos with Lana over the years.
Foundation events, college throwbacks on social media, candid shots at charity galas.
Mid-thirties, professional but approachable, the kind of person who belongs in foundation offices and hostile negotiations equally.
She takes a table diagonal to mine, orders coffee, pulls out her laptop like she's here to work.
We're positioned now. Triangulated coverage. Neither of us acknowledging the other, both of us watching.
At 12:58 PM, Lana walks through the entrance.
She's wearing gray slacks and a navy blouse, hair pulled back, the necklace visible at her throat. Professional armor. Performance of composure. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands grip her bag slightly too tight.
She's terrified. And she's here anyway.
That's courage. Not absence of fear, but action despite it.
At 1:02 PM, Ezra Pope arrives.