CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JAX
Friday. One week since I removed the cameras from Lana's apartment.
Seven days of maintaining the space she asked for, of not texting except when she reaches out first, of pretending distance is the same thing as doing the right thing.
The distinction felt clearer last week when boundaries seemed ethical rather than torturous.
Now it just feels like I'm slowly losing my mind.
My apartment in The Hollows is too small on my days off, the walls closing in with nothing to distract from the absence of surveillance feeds I'm not supposed to be monitoring.
On Fridays, I usually sleep until noon after working nights all week, then spend the afternoon on maintenance tasks that don't require being at The Dominion.
Today I've been awake since six AM, staring at my ceiling, trying to convince myself that not checking traffic cameras near Lana's building is the same thing as respecting her request for space.
I give up on sleep at seven, make coffee in the kitchen that's barely large enough for one person, stare at my laptop with the particular self-loathing of someone who knows exactly what he's about to do and does it anyway.
Traffic cameras near Lana's building. I pull up feeds I shouldn't have access to, scan footage from this morning and watch till I find her leaving at eight-thirty with Derek—same as Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.
Professional security doing exactly what professional security does, keeping her safe through methods that don't involve the man who was illegally monitoring her apartment.
I close the laptop before I can spiral further into checking foundation office cameras, her route to therapy on Wednesday, any of the thousand other data points I've been cataloging despite promising Elias I'd stop completely.
The conversation with him last Saturday plays through my head with uncomfortable clarity. We met at Giordano's for our monthly check-in lunch, and he spent ninety minutes calmly deconstructing every reason I'd given myself for continuing to monitor her.
"You can't position yourself as her emergency contact, Jax. Using threats to justify your presence—that's surveillance by another name."
He was right. About all of it. About me justifying watching with caring, about surveillance becoming the only way I know how to connect, about needing to figure out if what I feel survives when I can't monitor her every move.
But being right doesn't make the space any easier to maintain, doesn't stop me from wanting to drive to her apartment and reinstall every camera I removed.
My phone sits on the coffee table. No messages from Lana since Monday night when I told her to figure out if she wants me or just wants someone watching.
Four days of her actually maintaining the distance instead of testing boundaries with crisis texts.
Four days of wondering if the space is helping her gain clarity or just proving that attraction without protection was never real to begin with.
At nine AM, my phone vibrates. Text from Lucien: Need you to come in right now. Situation developing with Trask. Not optional.
The message jolts me into focus. Trask. Which means this involves Lana even though I'm supposed to be maintaining distance, even though Blackwood is handling her security, even though every instinct I have is already running through threat scenarios before I finish reading.
Me: What kind of situation?
Lucien: The kind we discuss in person. Be here in thirty minutes.
I'm in the shower before I can second-guess whether responding to this violates the space Lana asked for.
Trask is a threat to The Dominion's operations as much as to Lana personally—he cased our building last week, tried to recruit me for intelligence gathering, knows enough about our security protocols to cause real damage.
Lucien calling me in on my day off means something pushed past routine threat assessment into territory requiring immediate response.
I dress in work clothes, drive to The Dominion through Friday morning traffic, arrive at the building twenty-eight minutes after Lucien's text.
The club is mostly empty this time of day—cleaning crews and administrative staff, the occasional member using daytime facilities.
I take the stairs to Lucien's office on the third floor, knock once, and enter without waiting for a response.
Lucien is at his desk with Brandon Hayes from Blackwood Security. I recognize him immediately from the photos I studied when I was researching firms for Lana. Both of them look grim in ways that make my chest tight before anyone speaks.
"Mr. Hills." Brandon stands, shakes my hand with professional efficiency. "We have a situation involving Owen Trask that requires your expertise."
"What happened?"
"Trask broke into Ms. Pope's apartment last night at three AM.
" Brandon pulls up photos on his tablet—Lana's apartment with clear signs of entry, belongings disturbed in the living room, drawers opened, a message left on her bathroom mirror in what looks like lipstick: Professional security isn't enough.
My hands curl into fists before I can stop the reaction. "Where is she now?"
"Safe location. We moved her immediately.
" Brandon swipes to more photos—the picked lock on her apartment door showing fresh scratches, an open living room window, a knocked-over lamp.
"My team member Andre was posted outside her door.
He took a brief bathroom break—four, maybe five minutes maximum.
Trask used that window. Picked the lock, entered the apartment while Ms. Pope was asleep. "
"And Andre didn't hear anything?" The question comes out harder than I intend.
"Ms. Pope had taken a sleeping pill. Stress from the estate situation, foundation pressure—she was trying to get actual rest. She slept through Trask's entry, through him moving around her apartment.
" Brandon's expression is grim. "Andre returned to his post, heard sounds from inside a few minutes later.
Knocked, asked if she was alright. Then heard a crash—something getting knocked over.
He forced entry, saw the living room window open and Trask already down the fire escape.
Third floor, metal fire escape—Trask was gone before Andre could pursue without leaving Ms. Pope unprotected. "
The timeline is efficient, professional. Four minutes of vulnerability exploited by someone who'd been watching long enough to know Andre's bathroom schedule. "What else?"
"Ms. Pope's phone." Brandon pulls up another photo—a smartphone on a kitchen counter.
"She told Andre she left it charging on her nightstand like she does every night.
We found it on the kitchen counter. Trask moved it, likely installed tracking software or monitoring capabilities.
We couldn't risk bringing a compromised device to the safe house—it stays secured at the apartment as evidence. She has a burner phone now."
The details paint a picture of someone with professional training and operational patience.
Trask didn't just break in—he conducted multi-day surveillance, learned patterns, identified the exact moment of vulnerability, then violated her space while she slept and tampered with her communication devices.
"Ms. Pope has been asking for you. Specifically. Since four AM. The second she was coherent after the medication wore off, she wanted us to call you."
Brandon's expression is carefully neutral. "Wanted to know if you could help design security for the safe house that someone like Trask couldn't penetrate. We would have had her contact you directly, but her phone…" He trails off.
She's asking for me. After a week of space, after maintaining distance even when Trask escalated, after I told her to figure out what she actually wants—she's asking for me specifically.
And she couldn't reach out herself, couldn't text or call, was completely cut off from contact while being moved to a location I didn't know existed.
I’m already thinking of how to check out the security details of this safe location, if it will be secure enough to keep out someone like Trask, if he ever finds out about this new location.
Trask is someone with professional skills, operational discipline, the kind of surveillance expertise that comes from training rather than just criminal enterprise.
"Where is this safe location?" I ask looking between Lucien and Brandon.
"Safe house in The Gateway, tenth floor.
Blackwood arranged it after the break-in.
Controlled access building, twenty-four-hour concierge, much better security than her compromised apartment.
" Lucien is studying me with careful attention.
"Jax, I know maintaining distance this past week was difficult.
But this threat has escalated past what we anticipated.
Trask breaking in while she was sleeping—that's not intimidation anymore. That's imminent danger."
He's not drawing boundaries. He's acknowledging that the situation changed, that the surveillance he ordered me to conduct is now justified by the very threat we were trying to assess. Lucien knows exactly how dangerous Trask is—he's seen the same intelligence reports I have.
"She needs security infrastructure that actually works," I say. "The safe house has building security, but if Trask is as good as this break-in suggests, standard measures won't be sufficient."
"Which is why Brandon asked you here. We need you to design a comprehensive security system for that location—assume the threat has skills comparable to yours, design something that can't be bypassed the way her apartment was.
" Lucien's voice carries the weight of someone who understands threat assessment.
"This isn't about resuming surveillance. This is about keeping her alive."