CHAPTER SIX LANA
You're embarrassing me. You're always embarrassing me.
The words are clear and sharp, like he's standing beside the bed instead of buried in a cemetery plot his family chose without consulting me. I lie there in the predawn darkness, counting ceiling fan rotations until the voice fades back into whatever corner of my memory keeps resurrecting him.
The dream—if it was a dream—lingers like smoke.
Gabriel at one of his business dinners, his hand on my thigh under the table, squeezing hard enough to leave marks.
Smiling at colleagues while his fingers dug into my flesh.
Punishment disguised as affection. You talked too much tonight.
You need to learn when to be decorative instead of distracting.
I get up. Shower with water hot enough to scald, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of his hands on my skin. Five months dead and he still touches me in ways I can't escape.
By 7 AM, I'm dressed for the foundation office—gray slacks, cream blouse, the uniform of someone who's holding it together.
My phone shows three texts from Solange asking about last night's dinner, one from Dr. Cross confirming our Friday session, and one from an unknown number that makes my stomach drop.
Ms. Pope, we should talk. Regarding Gabriel's estate and certain irregularities that have come to light. Please contact my office at your earliest convenience. — Malcolm Fielding, Attorney at Law
Malcolm Fielding. Gabriel's attorney. The man who handled the estate transfer, who assured me everything was straightforward, who promised Gabriel's will was ironclad.
If he's contacting me about "irregularities," someone is challenging something.
I don't call him back. Instead, I make coffee with hands that have learned not to shake in public, drink it standing at my kitchen counter while watching the morning light turn my apartment from prison to merely a cage.
The dinner last night was supposed to be networking. A performance. Another step in proving I could exist in Lucien Armitage's world without falling apart. Instead, it became something else the moment Jax Hills showed me that panic room and told me he could see my performance for what it was.
I see someone who's very good at performing recovery. And I see how much that performance costs.
No one has said anything that true to me since Gabriel died. Maybe since before he died. Dr. Cross gets close in therapy, but she's paid to excavate my damage. Jax just looked at me and named it like he'd been studying the architecture of my survival.
Which he has. I'm certain now. The man behind the cameras at The Dominion. The one who's been watching with the kind of attention that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and seen.
I should be terrified. Should report him to someone, though I'm not sure who you report surveillance to when the surveillance is conducted by the head of security himself.
Maybe I should stop going to The Dominion, stop accepting Lucien's invitations, stop putting myself in spaces where Jax Hills can watch me.
Instead, I'm thinking about the way he looked at me in that elevator. The careful distance he maintained. The admission that watching wasn't enough anymore, but he didn't know what came next.
I understand that uncertainty. I've been living in it since Gabriel's body hit the rocks.
My phone buzzes. Solange: You're ignoring me. That means either the dinner was terrible or you're spiraling. Office by 9? I have croissants.
I text back: On my way.
The foundation office is a twenty-minute subway ride from my apartment. I take the same route I've taken every weekday for the past three months, the same train car, the same position near the door where I can exit quickly if needed. Routine is safety. Predictability is control.
Except today, routine feels watched.
I can't identify specifics—no one is following me, no one is staring—but the sensation persists. Like someone mapped my movements and is confirming I'm following the expected pattern. Like I'm being monitored not for threat but for consistency.
By the time I reach the office, the paranoia has settled into the low-grade anxiety that's become my baseline. Solange is already there, as promised, with coffee and croissants and an expression that says she's prepared to extract information.
"So?" She pushes a croissant toward me across her desk. "How was dinner with Miramont's elite?"
"An exhausting performance. Exactly what I expected." I break off a piece of croissant, force myself to eat even though my appetite died somewhere around Gabriel's funeral.
"And Lucien?"
"Calculating. Everything he does has three layers of intention." I sip coffee that Solange made too strong, which means she's worried. "He introduced me to his head of security. Jax Hills."
Her eyebrows rise. "The hot one?"
"I didn't say he was hot."
"You didn't have to. That pause before you said his name told me everything." She leans forward. "What happened?"
I could deflect. Could maintain the boundaries I've built around anything remotely personal. But Solange is the only person who knows fragments of truth about Gabriel, about what our marriage really looked like behind the charity galas and society photos.
"He showed me Lucien's panic room. Explained the security features. And then he told me he could see that I was putting on a performance, trying to act like I am recovered from Gabriel’s death.
" I meet her gaze. "He saw through everything I've been carefully constructing. Just looked at me and named it."
Solange is quiet for a moment. Then: "How did that feel?"
"Terrifying, validating. Maybe both." I set down my coffee. "The Dominion has cameras everywhere. I think he's the one behind them. The one watching. I've felt it, that specific kind of surveillance, and I think it's him."
"And that doesn't make you want to run?"
"It should." I pull apart more croissant without eating it. "But there was something about the way he admitted it. Like he knew it was wrong but couldn't stop. Like he was as trapped in watching me as I am in being watched."
"Lana." Solange's voice goes serious. "That's not romantic. That's concerning. A man who admits he's watching you but can't stop? That's a red flag the size of Miramont."
She's right. I know she's right. But there's a difference between Gabriel's surveillance and Jax's attention that I can't articulate without sounding damaged in ways that would worry her more.
Gabriel watched me to control. To catch mistakes, document failures, build cases for why I needed correction.
Jax watches me like he's trying to understand. Like I'm a code he's attempting to break, not to exploit but to comprehend.
The difference matters. Even if it shouldn't.
"I'm being careful," I say, which is the lie we both need me to tell.
Solange doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. We spend the next two hours reviewing survivor requests and interviewing potential attorneys for the legal aid expansion.
The work is grounding. Purposeful. A woman needs emergency housing after her husband found her first safe house.
Another needs funds for a custody attorney.
A third needs relocation money to leave the state entirely.
Each one is trying to leave a marriage like mine, and helping them escape feels like retroactive salvation.
At 11:30, my phone rings. Unknown number. I almost don't answer, but something—instinct, curiosity, the residual training of five years answering every call immediately because Gabriel would be furious if I missed one—makes me pick up.
"Ms. Pope?" A man's voice. Smooth. Familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. "This is Ezra Pope. Gabriel's brother. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
Ezra. I've met him exactly three times: the wedding, one awkward Christmas dinner, and Gabriel's funeral where he gave a eulogy that made his brother sound like a saint instead of the man who spent five years systematically dismantling my sense of self.
"Ezra. Hello." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping we could meet. There are some matters regarding Gabriel's estate that I'd like to discuss. Nothing urgent, but I think a conversation would be beneficial for both of us."
My pulse picks up. "Malcolm Fielding contacted me this morning about irregularities. Is this related?"
A pause. "Malcolm sometimes overstates concerns. I'm sure whatever he mentioned is easily resolved. But yes, there are a few questions about the estate distribution that I'd like to clarify. Perhaps lunch this week? My treat, obviously. Gabriel would want me to look after you."
The solicitude in his voice is honey over poison. Gabriel would want me to look after you. Translation: Gabriel's family thinks I need supervising, managing. Controlling even.
"I'm quite busy this week," I say. "Perhaps we could handle this over the phone?"
"I'd really prefer to meet in person. These matters are sensitive." His tone shifts, becomes slightly harder. "Gabriel was my brother, Lana. I think I'm entitled to understand what happened to his estate and ensure his wishes are being honored."
There it is. The velvet glove coming off. I'm entitled. His wishes. The implication that I'm somehow not honoring Gabriel's memory, not deserving of what he left me, not trustworthy to manage what's legally mine.
"Thursday," I say, making a decision I'll probably regret. "Lunch on Thursday. Text me the location."
"Wonderful. I'll choose somewhere appropriate. Thank you, Lana. I know this must be difficult for you." His voice gentles in a way that feels practiced. "Gabriel's death was a tragedy. I just want to make sure his legacy is protected."
The call ends. I sit there holding my phone, staring at Solange, who's been watching this entire exchange with increasing concern.
"That was Gabriel's brother," I say.
"I gathered. What does he want?"