CHAPTER FOURTEEN LANA #2
I stare at the address, pulling it up on my maps.
Morrison Street. That's in The Hollows—the part of Miramont where buildings lean into each other like they're sharing structural support, where Gabriel used to talk about the residents with a mixture of pity and contempt.
I'd assumed Jax lived somewhere that matched his work at The Dominion, something sleek and modern with security systems and a view. Not here.
The drive takes twelve minutes. I park on the street because there's no visitor lot, feed the meter with quarters I find in my console, stand on the sidewalk looking up at a building that's seen better decades.
Red brick darkened by exhaust and weather, fire escape zigzagging down the facade, windows that don't quite match each other like they've been piecemealed over the years.
This is where the man watching me lives. The disconnect is jarring.
I text him: I'm here.
His response comes immediately: Front door code is 4739. Come up.
The building's entry smells like cooking—something with cumin and garlic—mixed with old carpet and the particular mustiness of radiator heat. The elevator has an "OUT OF ORDER" sign that looks permanent. I take the stairs, counting floors, my footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell.
Fourth floor. The hallway is narrow; doors painted a green that might have been cheerful thirty years ago. 4D is at the end, and Jax opens it before I knock, like he's been tracking my progress through the building.
"You came," he says.
"You said it was important."
He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot.
I've seen him in casual clothes before, but this feels different.
Maybe it's the barefoot part, the wet hair, the fact that he's in his own space.
Or maybe it's that he's let me into his apartment at all.
This feels more vulnerable somehow, more real.
He steps back to let me in. The apartment is small—I can see the entire space from the doorway.
The kitchen is barely big enough for one person, a living room with a couch and coffee table, and a hallway that probably leads to a bedroom and bathroom.
Everything is clean to the point of surgical, surfaces empty except for necessities.
No art on the walls, no plants, no personal items visible except for one thing that catches my attention immediately.
A bookshelf against the far wall, packed so densely that some volumes are stacked horizontally on top of the vertical rows. The only piece of furniture in this space that suggests someone actually lives here rather than camps temporarily.
I move toward it without asking permission, reading spines.
Philosophy, surveillance theory, poetry in three languages, novels with broken spines that suggest multiple readings.
A worn copy of Neruda with margins full of notes in handwriting I recognize from the reports he's written about Ezra's investigators.
"You live here," I say, which is obvious, but I need to say it anyway. "In The Hollows."
"Is that a problem?" His voice is neutral, but I can hear the edge underneath.
"No. I'm just—" I turn to face him. "Gabriel used to talk about this neighborhood like it was where people ended up when they failed at life. He'd drive blocks out of his way to avoid it."
"I'm aware of how people like Gabriel view this place." Jax moves to his kitchen and starts making coffee. "The Dominion pays well, but not well enough to justify luxury housing when I'm there six nights a week anyway. This works. It's functional."
There's defensiveness in his tone that I wasn't expecting, and I realize I've accidentally touched something tender.
Not about money—about the gap between us, about the way my entire life exists in spaces Gabriel curated while Jax lives somewhere my dead husband would have considered beneath notice.
"I wasn't judging," I say. "I was just surprised. You seem like someone who'd want more security. Better locks, cameras, a building with actual working elevators."
"I have security. Just not the kind you're thinking of.
" He pours coffee into two mugs. "The broken elevator means anyone coming up has to take stairs, which I can hear from here.
The building's mixed use—artists, students, people who work nights—so strange hours don't get noticed.
And nobody in The Hollows calls the cops unless they absolutely have to, which means privacy. "
He hands me coffee, and I take it without thinking, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
We're standing in his kitchen—if you can call six feet of counter and a two-burner stove a kitchen—and the proximity feels different than it did in my apartment last night.
Here, I'm the one in his space, the one intruding on territory he controls.
"You said you needed to tell me something about Trask," I prompt.
Jax moves to his laptop on the coffee table, wakes it up, angles the screen so I can see. Surveillance footage from my building's exterior, timestamp showing four-eighteen this morning. Trask is there, camera around his neck, coffee in hand, performing his usual routine of documentation.
"He was outside your building from four-eighteen until six-oh-three," Jax says. "But he wasn't alone."
The footage shows Trask talking to another man—mid-forties, leather jacket, the kind of build that suggests either serious gym time or a job that requires physical intimidation. They're conferring over Trask's camera, reviewing photos, pointing at my building's entrance.
"Who is that?"
"Victor Reese. Private security contractor.
The kind you hire when you want someone scared rather than protected.
" Jax clicks to another clip, shows Reese entering my building's lobby, testing the door to the stairwell, examining the security panel.
"He was casing your building. Running through access points, timing security rotations, mapping blind spots. "
My coffee mug feels too heavy in my hands. "Why would Trask need a security contractor?"
"He wouldn't. But whoever hired him might.
" Jax pulls up more footage—Reese leaving the building, meeting Trask on the corner, both of them walking toward a black SUV parked three blocks away.
"Ezra dropped the legal case. That means he can't touch your inheritance through courts. But he can still try other methods."
The implication settles over me with a weight that makes breathing difficult. "You think he's planning something physical."
"I think he's escalating. Reese specializes in breaking and entering, intimidation, making people feel unsafe in their own homes." Jax closes the laptop, turns to face me fully. "This isn't surveillance anymore, Lana. This is threat assessment for actual violence."
"So what do I do?"
"You call Mira. Document everything. Get a restraining order against Trask and Reese both.
You might not have grounds to stop them from photographing you in public, but you can prevent them from entering your building or coming within a certain distance.
" He's talking fast now, the way he does when he's running through tactical plans.
"I'll increase monitoring on your apartment.
Add another camera angle for the building entrance.
Maybe install motion sensors on your door—"
"Jax, stop." I set down my coffee before I drop it. "Solange said something this morning that I can't stop thinking about."
He goes very still. "What did she say?"
"That if you and I are going to figure out what this is between us; you can't also be my security system.
That those two roles can't coexist without creating the exact power imbalance we're trying to avoid.
" The words feel dangerous coming out of my mouth, like I'm dismantling something I might need. "She's right, isn't she?"
Jax doesn't answer immediately. His expression does something complicated—recognition, resistance, maybe resignation. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we separate the two things.
I hire actual security—professionals who aren't emotionally complicated.
People who can handle Trask and Webb without it being tied to whatever is happening between us.
" I force myself to hold his gaze. "And you stop being the person monitoring my apartment.
Remove the cameras, give me space to figure out what I'm feeling without surveillance as constant presence. "
"That makes you more vulnerable."
"Does it? Or does it just feel that way because I've gotten used to being watched?"
The question hangs between us. I can see him processing it, running through the same analysis I've been running since Solange pointed out the trap I'm walking into. The inability to separate genuine connection from contextual dependency.
"If I remove the cameras," he says slowly, "and something happens to you because I wasn't monitoring—"
"Then we deal with it. But Jax, I can't build a relationship with someone who's also my surveillance system. And I can't keep confusing your protection with actual intimacy."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he's going to argue. Going to explain why the cameras are necessary, why removing them would be strategically foolish, why I'm wrong about the power dynamics. Instead he moves to the window, looks out at the street four floors below.
"You're right," he says finally. "About all of it.
About the power imbalance and the dependency and the way I've been using protection as proximity.
" He turns back to face me. "But I need you to understand something.
The cameras weren't just about keeping you safe.
They were about keeping myself from losing you before I had you. "
The confession is raw enough that it hurts to hear. "What does that mean?"
"It means I've been watching you for weeks, cataloging every pattern, every routine, every small detail.
And somewhere in that surveillance, I stopped being professional and started being obsessed.
" His hands flex at his sides, the only sign of tension in an otherwise controlled stance.
"Removing the cameras means I don't get to see you unless you choose to let me.
That terrifies me more than any threat from Ezra or Trask or whoever else. "
The honesty is devastating in its simplicity. This isn't about my safety. This is about his need to maintain connection through the only method he knows—observation, documentation, the careful watching that's been his entire professional life.
"That's exactly why the cameras need to go," I say gently. "Because what you're describing isn't protection. It's possession with better optics."
He flinches like I've hit him, but he doesn't argue. Just nods once, sharp and definitive. "When do you want them removed?"
"Today. Now, if possible." I'm pushing before I can second-guess this decision. "I need to know if what I feel for you survives without the surveillance. And you need to figure out if you can want me without watching me."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we both learn something important about whether this was ever real."
He moves to his laptop, pulls up a file, then forwards it to my phone. "That's everything," he says. "Every camera location, every access point, every piece of surveillance equipment I installed in or around your building. I'll have it all removed by tonight."
The speed of his compliance unsettles me more than resistance would have. "Just like that?"
"You're right about the power dynamics. About possession versus protection. I've been telling myself the surveillance was necessary for your safety, but really I was just finding excuses to maintain access." He closes the laptop with more force than necessary. "I won't be that person."
"But Reese and Trask are still out there. The threat is real."
"Then we handle it differently. You hire professional security through Mira's office. People who specialize in physical protection, not surveillance. I'll give them everything I have on Trask and Reese—patterns, photos, threat assessment. Then I step back."
"Completely?"
"From the security role, yes. From you—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "That's up to you. If you want space to figure out what you're feeling without me on your throat, I'll give you that space. But I'm not walking away entirely unless you tell me to."
I should feel relieved. This is what I asked for—separation of protection and relationship, removal of the surveillance that's been making clarity impossible. Instead I feel untethered, like I'm about to remove the scaffolding before confirming the structure can stand on its own.
"I need time," I say. "To figure out if what I feel is real or just dependency wearing a different face. A week, maybe two."
"How much contact during that time?"
"Minimal. No surveillance, no checking in unless I reach out first. Let me exist without being watched and see if I still want you when the cameras are gone."
His expression does something painful—acceptance and loss happening simultaneously. "And if you decide this was just trauma response? That the attraction doesn't survive without the protection element?"
"Then at least we'll know. And we can both move forward without wondering what might have been real.
" I move toward his door, needing to leave before I change my mind about this.
"Remove the cameras today. I'll call Mira about proper security.
We'll figure out the rest after I've had time to think clearly. "
He doesn't try to stop me, doesn't argue for more contact or slower withdrawal. Just nods and says, "I'll text you when the equipment is removed. After that, the next move is yours."
I leave his apartment with the certainty that I've just made either the best or worst decision of my recovery. Time will tell which.