CHAPTER TWELVE LANA
The apartment feels emptier after Jax leaves.
Not the comfortable emptiness I've cultivated since Gabriel died—the kind where being alone means safety rather than isolation.
This emptiness carries the ghost of his presence: the indent on the couch where he sat, the faint scent of whatever soap he uses, the phantom sensation of his mouth against mine.
I touch my lips without meaning to. The kiss happened twenty-three minutes ago, and I can still feel the pressure of it, the way we both leaned in without planning to, the moment when careful negotiation dissolved into want that bypassed every rational boundary we'd constructed.
We shouldn't have done that.
We definitely shouldn't have done that.
I can't bring myself to regret it.
My phone sits on the coffee table where I left it, Jax's last text still visible on the screen: Promise?
The single word carries more weight than it should.
We promised to figure this out. Promised to be honest. Promised to wait until the legal chaos resolves before deciding whether this attraction is real or just proximity making terrible decisions feel inevitable.
But waiting feels impossible when I can still taste him.
I force myself up from the couch, needing movement to burn off the restless energy coursing through me.
The kitchen still smells like Thai food from yesterday, evidence of care disguised as tactical support.
I open the window above the sink, letting October air cut through the warmth, grounding myself in temperature and sensation instead of memory.
My reflection catches in the window glass.
The woman looking back appears more present than she has in months—there’s color in her cheeks, her eyes are focused instead of distant, and her mouth is curved into something that might be the beginning of a smile.
She looks like someone who just got kissed by a man who's been watching her for weeks.
Someone who kissed him back without hesitation.
Someone who might be making the same mistakes that destroyed her the first time.
The thought arrives like cold water. Gabriel watched me too. Monitored my movements, tracked my phone, installed cameras throughout our house. Said it was because he loved me, because he wanted me safe, because caring meant knowing where I was at all times.
Jax does all those things. He has cameras in my apartment right now, monitoring feeds I can access but he can access it too without me knowing exactly when he does. Tracks my location through my phone. Knows my patterns well enough to predict when I deviate from routine.
The methodology is identical. The justification differs. But does justification actually change the dynamic, or does it just make surveillance more palatable?
My phone buzzes. Text from Solange: How did it go with Mira? And more importantly, are you okay after yesterday?
I stare at the message, calculating what to tell her. The truth would require admitting that my attorney meeting went well but I'm spiralling because I kissed the man who's been silently watching me for three weeks and neither of us regrets it even though we absolutely should.
That conversation requires more honesty than text allows.
I type back: Mira's optimistic about our legal position. Can we talk later? Maybe dinner?
Her response comes quickly: Yes. My place, 7 PM. I'll cook. You bring wine and whatever's making you deflect.
I almost laugh. Solange knows me too well. Six years of friendship—longer than my marriage to Gabriel—means she reads evasion in my punctuation.
Deal, I send back.
That gives me seven hours to process everything before I have to articulate it out loud to someone who'll tell me the truth even when the truth hurts.
I spend the afternoon doing things that feel productive but serve mainly as distraction.
I review grant applications for the foundation even though I can't focus on the words.
Answer emails with responses that probably make sense but definitely lack the attention they deserve.
Organize my closet even though organization won't solve any actual problems.
By 3 PM, I've checked off tasks without addressing what actually needs dealing with. I’ve used productivity as avoidance.
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number, but I recognize it now—Malcolm Fielding's office.
The text reads: Ms. Pope, please call at your earliest convenience. Sarah Chen has questions about estate documentation before next week's deadline.
Next week's deadline. Ezra's ultimatum. Accept his settlement or face formal proceedings.
I don't call back. Mira told me to route all estate communication through her office, that responding directly gives Malcolm and his new firm opportunities to twist my words. So I forward the text to Mira with a note: They're pushing. What should I do?
Her response arrives within minutes: Ignore. Let them sweat. We're not responding to pressure tactics.
The confidence in her words helps fractionally. Mira Keaton doesn't back down from fights, doesn't negotiate from fear. She's exactly what I need—a lawyer who treats legal warfare as opportunity rather than threat.
But underneath Mira's confidence, the reality remains: one week until Ezra forces a decision. One week to prepare for the possibility that every detail of my marriage gets examined in discovery. One week before my carefully reconstructed life either stabilizes or collapses entirely.
I pull up the camera feeds on my phone—the system Jax installed just days ago that feels like two years given everything that's happened since.
Six angles of my apartment: entrance showing the empty hallway, the living room capturing the couch where we kissed, the kitchen where he stood behind me fastening the necklace I wore to Marconi's.
The cameras should feel invasive. They did feel invasive the first time I checked the feeds. But now they feel like proof that I'm not actually alone even when the apartment is empty, that someone is watching not to control but to protect.
Or maybe that's just what I'm telling myself because admitting I've normalized surveillance makes me complicit in my own monitoring.
I close the app before the spiral deepens.
By 5 PM, I've run out of productive procrastination. The apartment is clean, emails answered, and my closet organized. Nothing left to distract me from the reality that I kissed Jax this morning and spending the rest of my life not thinking about it feels impossible.
I shower, washing away the afternoon's restless energy. Change into jeans and a sweater. Pack a bag with my laptop and phone charger because staying at Solange's overnight feels safer than coming back here alone after admitting everything I've been avoiding.
At 6:47 PM, I'm standing outside Solange's building in The Hollows with two bottles of wine and the weight of confessions I'm not ready to make.
She lives on the fourth floor of a walk-up that's seen better days but maintains character through sheer determination.
The hallway is thick with the scent of garlic, spices, and something baking—layers of meals from a dozen different apartments mingling together, sounds of families and arguments and life happening in close quarters.
It's the opposite of Gabriel's estate—warm where his house was cold, chaotic where his control demanded order.
I knock at 6:51 PM.
Solange opens the door wearing an apron that says, "I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you" and an expression that says she already knows I'm about to complicate her evening.
"Wine first or confession first?" she asks, stepping aside to let me enter.
"Can I have wine during confession?"
"That bad?" She takes the bottles, studies the labels with approval. "You bought the good stuff. This is definitely about Jax."
I should be surprised that she's already guessed. I'm not. Solange has been reading my tells since before Gabriel taught me to hide them.
"Wine first," I decide, settling onto her couch—second hand like mine but more lived-in, covered with blankets and throw pillows that suggest comfort rather than survival. "Then confession."
She disappears into her kitchen, returns with two glasses and one of the bottles already opened. She pours generously, hands me a glass that's fuller than responsible and keeps the other for herself.
"So," she says, settling into the chair across from me. "Tell me what happened that's making you look simultaneously terrified and hopeful."
The assessment is accurate enough to sting. "I kissed Jax. Or he kissed me. Or we kissed each other. I'm not actually sure who moved first."
Solange takes a long drink of wine. Sets down her glass with careful precision. Looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Okay. When?"
"This morning. After my meeting with Mira. He came over to debrief and we were talking about attraction and boundaries and somehow we ended up—" I gesture vaguely. "Kissing."
"Somehow." She repeats the word with enough skepticism to make it clear she doesn't believe in accidental kisses. "And how do you feel about that?"
"Terrified. Confused. Aware that getting involved with someone who's been surveilling me is probably catastrophic judgment." I drink my own wine, welcoming the burn. "Also not sorry it happened, which might be the most concerning part."
"Why is not regretting it concerning?"
"Because I should regret it. He's been watching me for weeks, Solange.
Monitoring my phone, installing cameras in my apartment, tracking my movements.
Everything Gabriel did to me, Jax is doing.
The fact that I'm okay with it—that I kissed him anyway—means I've normalized surveillance in ways that should terrify me. "
Solange is watching me with the careful attention she reserves for moments when what I'm saying matters more than what I'm admitting. "Is Jax doing everything Gabriel did? Or are you conflating methodology with motivation?"