CHAPTER FIFTEEN JAX #3
Lana: Will they? Or will they just be professional security who don't know Trask the way you do?
The question is designed to pull me back in, to make me argue that she needs my specific expertise rather than professional distance.
And she's right—I do know Trask in ways generic security won't. Know his patterns, his methodology, the way he's been building toward something worse than just documentation.
But Lucien's warning echoes: Stop being the thing Trask can leverage against this organization.
Me: Make sure you provide everything I sent, what I have on Trask and Reese. Patterns, photos, threat assessment. They'll know what to watch for.
Lana: But you won't be watching.
Me: No. I won't be watching. That's what you asked for.
The dots appear again, stay visible for almost a minute, then disappear without response.
Whatever she was going to say, she decided against it.
Maybe realizing that pushing me to maintain involvement contradicts her request for space this morning.
Maybe processing that protection and relationship can't coexist the way we've been trying to make them.
I sit in the control center monitoring Dominion feeds that suddenly feel insufficient.
Staying here is better than going home to brood in my apartment, replaying surveillance footage I'm supposed to delete or driving past Lana's building to check on threats I'm no longer authorized to monitor.
At least here I have professional distractions, work that requires focus without emotional complication.
Room Seven where Trask was two hours ago. Main floor where members are starting to arrive for evening sessions. The lobby where everything appears normal even though the threat profile just escalated into territory I can't monitor anymore.
My phone doesn't vibrate again. Lana doesn't text asking me to reconsider. The space she asked for is exactly what she's getting, and it feels worse than any outcome I'd anticipated.
At seven-thirty, Elias texts: Still on for lunch tomorrow?
Me: Yes.
Elias: Good. Because we need to talk about what you're going to do when the woman you're obsessed with realizes she doesn't actually need you.
The assessment is surgical in its accuracy. This is the question I've been avoiding since Lana asked me to remove the cameras—what happens when protection was the only thing making me necessary? When surveillance was the scaffolding holding up attraction that can't support its own weight?
Tomorrow's lunch with Elias will force me to answer that question. Tonight I just sit in the control center watching feeds that don't include her, trying to convince myself that distance is the same as doing the right thing.
The shift passes with the particular torture of having nothing urgent to focus on.
Friday nights at The Dominion run predictably—regulars arriving between eight and ten, private sessions in rooms I monitor through feeds that suddenly feel invasive in ways they didn't before Lana asked me to stop watching.
Every camera angle is a reminder that surveillance is my entire professional identity, and I just agreed to stop applying it to the person I actually care about.
At eleven-forty, Marcus texts about tomorrow's handoff: Anything I need to know for day shift?
I type back: Senator Michaels may have questions about today's situation. Direct him to Lucien. Don't engage directly.
Marcus: Understood. You good?
The question carries weight I wasn't expecting.
Marcus has worked The Dominion for years, handles day shift with the same mechanical competence I bring to nights.
We're not friends—don't socialize outside work, barely speak beyond operational necessity.
But apparently my patterns have deviated enough that even he's noticed.
Me: I'm fine.
Marcus: Sure you are. See you Monday.
I finish the shift at two AM, drive home through streets that feel different without the detour past Lana's building.
Used to take Morrison Avenue specifically to pass her apartment complex, check the exterior lighting, make sure nothing looked wrong from street level.
Now I take the direct route to The Hollows, save myself eight minutes and the temptation to perform surveillance I'm supposed to be discontinuing.
My apartment is exactly as I left it—empty equipment case on the floor, laptop on the coffee table, the particular sterility of someone who doesn't accumulate possessions.
I should sleep. I have lunch with Elias in ten hours and need to be functional enough to handle whatever uncomfortable truths he's going to force me to acknowledge.
Instead I open my laptop and pull up the footage I saved before dismantling Lana's surveillance system.
Three weeks of recordings—her moving through her apartment, pacing when she's thinking, the particular way she drinks coffee standing at her window.
I told her I'd remove the equipment. Never said I'd delete the archive.
This is exactly the obsession Elias warned me about. The inability to let go even when letting go is the only ethical option. I'm watching footage of a woman who asked me to stop watching, justifying it by telling myself I might need the historical data for threat assessment.
But threat assessment isn't why I'm replaying the video from the night after our kiss, when she’s touching her mouth like she was trying to memorize the sensation. It’s because I can’t stop thinking about the woman who asked me to stop watching her.
I close the laptop before I can spiral further into territory that proves Lucien right about my compromised judgment. Set my alarm for eleven AM, strip down to boxers, and get into my bed that feels too empty even though I've slept alone for two years.
My phone sits on the nightstand. No new messages from Lana. The space she asked for is exactly what she's getting, and I'm trying to convince myself that distance is the same as respect.
Tomorrow I'll have lunch with Elias. Tell him about removing the cameras, about Trask's escalation, about Lucien's order to disengage completely. He'll ask all the question I'm avoiding.
The ones I don't have an answer to just yet. Maybe tomorrow I'll find one.
Or maybe I'll just learn to live with wanting someone who's better off without me.