CHAPTER TEN LANA #3
"It shows you being honest about trauma-related memory gaps.
That's different from admitting culpability.
" He sits on the other end of the couch, maintaining distance that feels more careful than casual.
"You did exactly what we prepared for. Stayed calm, didn't get defensive.
Let him reveal his intentions while you documented everything. "
Solange appears with three mugs of tea. She hands me one, sets another in front of Jax, keeps the third for herself.
Then she settles into my second-hand chair, wraps both hands around her mug, and looks at me with the expression I've learned means she's about to say something I need to hear but won't want to.
"You were incredible," she starts. "The way you handled him—staying composed while he tried to dismantle you—that took serious strength.
" She pauses. "But Lana? That man is dangerous.
Not physically dangerous, maybe, but dangerous in ways that are harder to defend against. He's going to make this ugly. "
"I know." I sip the tea. "One week. He gave me one week to accept his 'settlement' or face public proceedings."
"Then we prepare for public proceedings," Jax says. "Because settling means admitting doubt. Admitting that his allegations have merit."
"But going to court means everything gets examined. My therapy records. The foundation. Every detail of my marriage to Gabriel." I set down the mug before I drop it. "I'm not sure I can survive that kind of scrutiny."
"You can." Solange's voice is firm. "Because you have Mira Keaton, who's vicious in estate litigation.
You have documentation of Gabriel's controlling behavior.
You have evidence of Ezra's manipulation tactics.
" She gestures at the necklace on the coffee table.
"And you have people who will testify to what Gabriel was actually like, not the performance he showed the world. "
"Who? His colleagues thought he was brilliant. His friends thought he was generous. His family—" I gesture vaguely toward the door, toward Marconi's, toward Ezra. "His family thinks I killed him for his money."
"I'll testify." Solange says it without hesitation. "I met Gabriel. I saw how he treated you. I watched you diminish yourself for five years trying to be what he wanted. That's evidence."
"Is it enough?"
"Combined with everything else? With the recording from today? With Mira's legal strategy?" Jax leans forward slightly. "Yes. It's enough to fight back. Maybe not enough to guarantee winning, but enough to make fighting possible."
The distinction matters. Possible versus guaranteed. I've spent five months learning to accept uncertainty, to live with gaps and doubt and the knowledge that some questions don't have clear answers.
Maybe this is another gap I have to learn to live in. The space between defending myself and accepting defeat.
"Okay." The word comes out steadier than I feel.
"We fight. I meet with Mira again tomorrow; I’ll show her the recording, and let her build a strategy.
I don't settle. I don't admit to things I can't even remember doing.
And if Ezra wants to make this ugly—" I meet Jax's eyes across the couch.
"Then we make sure the ugliness goes both ways. "
Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe. Or recognition that I'm choosing to fight rather than fold.
"Good." He stands, and the movement feels like transition. "I'm going to take this recording to Lucien. He has resources—investigators, researchers, people who can dig into Ezra's background and find leverage. If Ezra wants warfare, we give him warfare."
I already know that for Lucien, I'm not being protected out of kindness. I'm being protected because I'm useful. Because my survival serves someone else's interests.
The knowledge should sting more than it does. But after five years with Gabriel, I'm used to being useful rather than valued. At least this time, the utility serves my survival instead of my subjugation.
"Then tell Lucien I'll cooperate with whatever investigation he needs to run. If he can find dirt on Ezra, I'll use it." I pull my knees up tighter. "I'm done being the cooperative widow who accepts what men decide I deserve."
Jax smiles, and the expression transforms his face from controlled to almost warm. "That's the Lana I've been watching for two weeks. The one who fights instead of folds."
The reminder that he's been watching—monitoring, surveilling, and cataloging my patterns—should bother me more than it does. But after today, after Ezra's threats and Marconi's psychological warfare, Jax's surveillance feels less like a violation and more like the only reason I'm still standing.
He heads toward the door, then pauses. "I'll be back around four-thirty. I want to debrief properly before I head to The Dominion for my shift. Is that okay?"
The question is careful. He's not assuming access, not demanding entry. Asking permission even though we both know I'll say yes.
"Four-thirty works." I hesitate, then add: "And Jax? Thank you. For being there today. I know you couldn't intervene, but knowing you were watching—" I can't quite finish the sentence.
"I know." Two words that carry more weight than they should. "Get some rest before then. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted." The admission costs me. "But I'll be here."
Then he's gone, and it's just me and Solange in my small apartment with afternoon light turning everything golden and temporary.
Solange finishes her tea, sets down the mug with the careful precision of someone buying time to choose words. "So, Jax."
"What about him?"
"He's not just security anymore. You know that, right?" She meets my eyes. "The way he looks at you. The way he talks about protecting you. That's not professional. That's personal."
She's watching me too closely, seeing past every deflection. "I know." I say simply.
"And how do you feel about that?"
It's the question I've been avoiding since the moment Jax fastened the necklace at my throat and I felt my pulse jump under his fingers. Since the midnight texts about emptiness and surveillance. Since sitting too close on this couch yesterday and neither of us moving away.
"Terrified," I admit. "He's been watching me for weeks. Monitoring my phone. Installing cameras in my apartment. Everything Gabriel did, Jax is doing. Just with better justification."
"But?"
"But it feels different. Gabriel watched me to control. Jax watches me to protect. And he's giving me access, transparency, veto power. Things Gabriel would never allow."
"That is different," Solange agrees. "But Lana?
Different doesn't mean safe. You're vulnerable right now.
You're being hunted by Ezra, threatened with public destruction, carrying five months of guilt and uncertainty about Gabriel's death.
Jax offering protection when you feel most threatened—that's seductive even if it's dangerous. "
She's right. Of course she's right. But danger and desire have been tangled together for so long that I don't know how to separate them anymore.
"I'm not making any decisions right now," I say instead of answering. "About Jax, about anything. I'm just trying to survive Ezra's deadline and figure out how to fight back without falling apart."
Solange nods, but her concern is visible. "Okay. But promise me something—if Jax's protection starts feeling like Gabriel's control, you tell me immediately. Before you're too entangled to extract yourself."
"I promise."
She stays another hour, helping me process the lunch, reviewing what Mira might need, making sure I'm stable enough to be alone.
By the time she leaves at 4:15 PM, I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with being “on” for hours while being systematically threatened.
I barely have time to splash water on my face and change out of the clothes that smell like Marconi's expensive air before there's a knock on my door.
4:28 PM. Jax is early.
I check the entrance camera feed on my phone first—verification remains instinct—and see Jax standing in the hallway.
He's changed since this afternoon—dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, dressed down in a way that makes my small apartment feel less like a tactical briefing and more like something else entirely.
I open the door. He's carrying takeout bags that smell like Thai food and possibility.
"Figured you probably didn't eat lunch," he says. "And debrief is easier with food."
The gesture is thoughtful in ways that make my chest tighten. "Come in."
He enters, sets the takeout on my kitchen counter, starts unpacking containers with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this before. Pad thai, spring rolls, green curry. Comfort food disguised as a strategy session.
"You have to be at The Dominion by six," I say, watching him arrange plates. "That doesn't give us much time."
"Enough time to make sure you're okay and review the recording." He pulls out two forks. "Lucien knows where I am. He'll understand if I'm fifteen minutes late."
We eat at my small kitchen table, the space barely large enough for two people but feeling less cramped than it should. And as we eat, we debrief—reviewing the recording, discussing Mira's likely strategy, mapping out responses to Ezra's allegations.
But underneath the tactical conversation, there's something else happening.
The way our knees brush under the table and neither of us moves away.
The way he passes me spring rolls and our fingers touch for a fraction too long.
The way he looks at me when I'm not looking at him, and the way I catch him looking and don't call it out.
We're negotiating something beyond security protocols and legal strategy. Something that feels inevitable and terrifying at the same time.
"I reviewed the recording twice already," he says between bites. "Sent it to Lucien before I left. He's already got people digging into Ezra's background—business dealings, political connections, anything we can use as leverage."
"And did they find anything?"
"Too early to tell. But Lucien's optimistic." He sets down his fork. "The recording is strong, Lana. Really strong. Ezra's threats are explicit enough that Mira can use them to show his motivations aren't about justice—they're about control and money."
"Like Gabriel's were."
"Like Gabriel's were," he agrees. "The Pope family seems to specialize in control disguised as concern."
We finish eating faster than either of us probably intended, and he helps me clean up even though I insist I can do it myself. The kitchen feels smaller with both of us moving through it, our bodies navigating the limited space with an awareness that has nothing to do with efficiency.
By 5:47 PM, we're done. The containers are cleared, dishes washed, and Jax is checking his phone for the time.
"I should go." He doesn't move toward the door. "My shift starts in thirteen minutes."
"You'll be late."
"Worth it." The admission is casual, but the weight behind it isn't. "Are you okay? Really?"
The honest answer is complicated. "I'm terrified of Ezra.
Of public proceedings. Of having every detail of my marriage examined and judged.
" I force myself to hold his gaze. "But I'm less terrified than I was three hours ago.
So thank you. For being at Marconi's. For this.
" I gesture at the cleaned kitchen, the evidence of his care.
"That's what this is." He finally moves toward the door, but pauses before opening it. "Not fixing. Not controlling. Just being here while you figure out how to survive the next thing."
The distinction between Gabriel's "care" and Jax's presence has never been clearer.
He opens the door, then turns back one more time. "Text me after your meeting with Mira tomorrow. Let me know what she says about strategy."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in my apartment with the smell of Thai food and the ghost of his presence.
I shower, washing away the last residue of Marconi's and Ezra's calculated manipulation. Change into comfortable clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that was mine before Gabriel, that he never commented on because he never saw me wear it. It’s a small reclamation of autonomy.
By 7 PM, I'm sitting on my couch with my phone, reviewing the text exchange with Jax. The admission about emptiness and surveillance. The vulnerability wrapped in midnight honesty.
I try to eat some more—leftover soup from two days ago—but my throat won't cooperate. Try to read, but the words blur together. Try to watch something mindless on my laptop, but my brain won't stop replaying Ezra's calculated threats.
By 9 PM, I give up on productivity and take my sleeping pill early and lie in bed counting ceiling fan rotations, waiting for the medication to drag me under.
Tomorrow, I'll meet with Mira and start building my legal defense. Tomorrow, I'll figure out how to fight Ezra without falling apart. Tomorrow, I'll make rational decisions about boundaries and protection and whether letting Jax this far into my life was wisdom or weakness.
But tonight, I close my eyes and count heartbeats until they return to normal, grateful that for once I wasn't alone in the warfare.