CHAPTER TEN LANA #2
There it is. The threat wrapped in an offer. Settle privately and keep some dignity, or face public destruction.
"And if I refuse your 'reasonable compromise'?"
"Then we proceed with formal proceedings.
I contest the will based on undue influence, questionable circumstances surrounding Gabriel's death, and your demonstrated instability.
" His tone is pleasant, conversational, as if he's discussing weather rather than threatening to destroy me.
"I have investigators documenting your current behavior—the isolation, the paranoia, the way you change routes randomly, the foundation you rushed into starting.
All evidence of someone not mentally fit to inherit such wealth. "
The investigators. The man who followed me last week. Jax was right—they're building a file, documenting everything, constructing a narrative of instability.
"Those aren't signs of instability. They're signs of trauma recovery." I keep my voice even. "I started a foundation to help other domestic violence survivors. I change routes because I'm aware someone is following me. I'm not paranoid—I'm appropriately cautious. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Ezra sips his wine. "Because from an outside perspective, you look like a woman who killed her husband, inherited his fortune, and is now exhibiting increasingly erratic behavior. Add in the memory gaps you're conveniently claiming, and the picture becomes quite damning."
My hands are shaking slightly under the table. I press them flat against my thighs, force them to stillness. "I didn't kill Gabriel."
"You just said you don't remember what happened."
"I don't remember the exact details. But I remember enough to know I didn't plan it.
Didn't want it. If I pushed him, it was because I was defending myself from a man who'd spent five years systematically destroying me.
" The words come out harder than I intend, louder.
I force myself to lower my voice. "He was abusive, Ezra.
Controlling. Monitoring. Making me afraid to breathe wrong.
If I defended myself that night, it was because defending myself was the only option he left me. "
"Abusive." Ezra repeats the word like it tastes bad. "Gabriel was successful, generous, and respected. He gave you everything. A beautiful home, financial security, social position. And you're rewriting history to make him a villain so you can justify inheriting his estate."
"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what our marriage actually was behind the performance we showed the world.
" I lean forward, let him see the anger I've been containing.
"Gabriel monitored my every movement. Tracked my phone.
Questioned where I went, who I talked to, why I took five minutes longer than usual coming home.
He isolated me from friends, criticized everything I did, made me feel like I was failing at being human.
That's not generosity. That's control. And control that extreme doesn't stop at monitoring—it escalates. "
"So you're saying he deserved to die."
"I'm saying he created conditions where his death was inevitable. Whether I pushed him or he slipped or some combination—the outcome was always going to be tragic because Gabriel couldn't stop himself from taking things too far."
Ezra is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Assessing. Calculating. Finally: "That's quite a story. The abused wife defending herself from the monster husband. Very sympathetic. I'm sure a jury would find it compelling."
"It's not a story. It's what happened."
"Then you won't mind if we examine it publicly. Depositions, evidence. Witness testimony." He signals the server for the check. "Because if you're telling the truth, you have nothing to fear from investigation. And if you're lying—" He lets the implication hang.
The server appears with the check. Ezra pulls out his wallet, places a card on the small tray with the precise movements of someone who's never questioned whether he has enough money for anything.
"Think about my offer, Lana. Private settlement, we both walk away with dignity intact. Or a public battle where every painful detail gets examined." He stands, and I'm forced to stand as well. "You have one week to decide. After that, I file formal proceedings."
One week. Seven days to decide whether to fight or surrender.
He extends his hand again. I take it because refusing would look guilty to anyone watching. His grip is firm, professional, and his thumb brushes across my knuckles again in that same gesture that could be sympathy or possession.
"I'm sorry it has to be this way," he says, and his voice carries enough false regret that anyone overhearing would think he genuinely cares. "Gabriel would be disappointed to see us at odds. But I have to protect his legacy. I hope you understand."
Then he's walking away, leaving me standing beside the table with untouched food and the weight of his ultimatum pressing against my chest like the recording device that captured every word.
I sink back into my chair because my legs won't hold me anymore.
Around me, Marconi's continues its expensive normalcy.
No one noticed the psychological warfare that just happened.
No one saw a man systematically dismantle a woman's claim to her own life while pretending to be concerned and reasonable.
Except Jax saw. And Solange saw. And the recording device captured everything.
The thought steadies me fractionally. I'm not alone, even though I feel stripped bare and exposed.
I pull out my phone, text Solange: I'm okay. Can we leave?
Her response comes immediately: Meet you at the entrance in two minutes. You did great.
I did something. Whether it was great or adequate or enough remains to be seen.
I stand on legs that threaten to buckle, gather my bag, walk toward the entrance with the same measured pace I'd use if this were a normal lunch ending normally. The performance continues even though the audience has left.
At the entrance, Solange materializes beside me.
She doesn't say anything, just puts a hand on my arm, a brief squeeze of solidarity.
Then Jax is there, appearing from wherever he was positioned, and his eyes do a rapid assessment—checking that I'm physically intact, emotionally functional, still standing.
"Car's outside," he says, his voice carrying none of the emotion I can see in his eyes. "Let's get you home."
I want to argue. Want to prove I'm strong enough to take the subway, to walk the twelve blocks, to not need extraction like I'm some kind of casualty. But the truth is I am a casualty. Ezra just conducted a surgical strike on my composure, and I'm barely holding the pieces together.
So I follow Jax out of Marconi's, into the bright October afternoon that feels wrong—too cheerful, too normal, too unconcerned with the fact that my entire life just got threatened over untouched entrees.
The car is the same town car from Lucien's dinner. Same driver. Same leather seats that smell like money and decisions. Solange climbs in beside me, and Jax takes the front passenger seat, angled so he can see me in the rearview.
"Your apartment or the foundation office?" the driver asks.
"Apartment," Jax answers before I can. Then, catching himself: "Unless you prefer somewhere else."
The fact that he corrects himself—gives me the choice instead of making the decision—matters more than it should. "The apartment is fine."
"The drive takes eighteen minutes through afternoon traffic. Marconi's is in The Crest—Gabriel's territory, old money and older grudges. My apartment in The Margin feels like a different city entirely. I count the minutes the way I count everything now."
At my building, Jax opens the car door, offers a hand I don't take because accepting help feels like admitting defeat. I'm capable of exiting a car unassisted. I'm capable of walking up three flights of stairs. I'm capable of unlocking my own apartment door.
Except when I try to get my key in the lock, my hands shake so badly that I drop the keys twice before Jax gently takes them from me and unlocks the door himself.
"Not defeat," he says softly, like he's reading my mind. "Just adrenaline crash. Your body's processing threat response. Let it process."
Inside, my apartment looks exactly as I left it this morning—small, temporary, provisional. The couch where Jax and I rehearsed yesterday. The kitchen where he stood behind me while fastening the necklace. The cameras I know are watching but can't see.
Solange heads straight for my kitchen. "I'm making tea. The British solution to everything, but it works."
Jax is doing something with his phone, and I realize he's probably reviewing the recording. Listening to what just happened, analyzing Ezra's threats, building the case we'll need.
I sink onto the couch, pull my knees up, wrap my arms around them. The position Dr. Cross says means I'm protecting myself. Right now, I am. I'm protecting whatever's left after Ezra's surgical dismantling.
The necklace feels heavier now. I reach up, unfasten it with fingers that are steadier than they were, set it carefully on the coffee table. The pendant catches afternoon light through my windows, innocent-looking, betraying nothing of the evidence it holds.
"Every word," Jax says, looking up from his phone.
"Clear audio. His threats. Your responses.
The way he framed everything as concern while systematically threatening you.
" He sets down his phone. "This is good evidence, Lana.
Really good. It shows his manipulation, his tactics, his admission that he's had you followed. "
"It also shows me admitting I don't remember if I pushed Gabriel."