CHAPTER TWELVE LANA #3
This explains the pressure tactics. Ezra is BLUFFING about formal proceedings.
He knows if this goes to court, discovery exposes his own finances.
He can't afford that kind of scrutiny before a political campaign.
The threats, the one-week deadline—it's all designed to make you settle before he'd actually have to file anything.
Then a third:
He's betting you'll cave to avoid the trauma of public proceedings. But now we know he's more desperate to avoid court than you are. His threats are empty. That's our leverage.
I read the messages twice, then hand my phone to Solange. She reads it, whistles under her breath.
"So Ezra isn't just a grieving brother seeking justice. He's also a politician that will be trying to prevent exposure." She hands back my phone. "That changes everything."
"How?"
"Because now you have leverage. If he proceeds with estate challenges, discovery goes both ways.
Mira can subpoena his financial records, examine his connections to The Glasshouse, expose everything he's trying to hide.
" She leans back in her chair, and I can see the strategist in her emerging.
"He can't afford that kind of scrutiny right before announcing a political campaign. "
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Jax: Lucien thinks you should use this information strategically.
Let Ezra know you're aware of his connections.
Make him understand that proceeding with estate challenges will expose things that destroy his political ambitions. Essentially—threaten him back.
Solange is reading over my shoulder now. "Lucien's right. This is leverage. But Lana, using it means playing the same game Ezra's playing. Are you comfortable with that?"
Am I comfortable threatening Ezra the way he threatened me? Using his secrets as weapons the way he's weaponizing my trauma?
The answer should be no. Should involve taking the high road, maintaining moral superiority, refusing to descend to his level.
But Gabriel taught me that moral superiority doesn't actually protect you. Being right doesn't matter if you're too destroyed to fight back.
"Yes," I say. "I'm comfortable with it. Ezra chose warfare. I'm just matching his tactics."
I text Jax back: How do I use this? Just tell him I know?
His response: Mira should handle it. Send her the information, let her communicate to Malcolm's firm that discovery will be mutually uncomfortable. That's usually enough to make people reconsider formal proceedings.
"Smart," Solange says, still reading over my shoulder. "Your attorney makes the threat. You maintain deniability. Professional instead of personal."
I forward the information to Mira with a note: Lucien's investigators found this. Can we use it to make Ezra reconsider?
Her response comes quickly despite the evening hour: Absolutely. This is exactly what we needed. I'll draft a communication to Malcolm's firm first thing tomorrow. We're going to make Ezra very uncomfortable.
The relief is immediate and intoxicating. For the first time since Ezra called requesting lunch, I feel like I'm not just defending against attacks. I'm capable of attacking back.
My phone buzzes one more time. Jax again: How are you doing? Actually doing, not “performance” doing.
The question catches me off guard. He's asking for honesty instead of accepting whatever performance I'd offer.
I type: Terrified of Ezra. Confused about us. Grateful you're asking instead of assuming.
His response takes longer this time: All valid feelings. And for what it's worth, I'm confused too. But I meant what I said this morning. We'll figure it out.
Solange is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are. Small smile, but definitely there." She collects our plates, carries them to the sink. "That's good, Lana. You should smile more. You've earned the right to feel something other than fear."
Have I? Earned the right to happiness or hope or whatever this feeling is when Jax texts asking how I'm actually doing?
My phone buzzes again: Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be intense once Mira communicates with Ezra's team.
I respond: You too. And Jax? Thank you. For finding the leverage we needed.
That's what protection looks like. Finding ways to keep you safe before threats become crises.
I set down my phone and help Solange with dishes, falling into the comfortable rhythm of washing and drying. The domesticity of it helps center me after a day that's swung between psychological warfare and unexpected kissing and legal leverage that might actually save me.
By 9:30 PM, we're settled back on her couch with the second bottle of wine and a documentary neither of us is actually watching.
"Stay over," Solange says, glancing at the bag I brought. "That's why you packed it, right? You shouldn't go home alone tonight."
She's right. That was the plan when I left my apartment—confess everything to Solange, stay in her guest room, avoid going back to the cameras and the weight of what happened this morning.
But something shifted during dinner. During the conversation about Ezra's bluff, about having leverage, about what’s happening between Jax and I.
"I should go home," I say. "Face the cameras. Prove to myself I can live with being watched when the watching comes with transparency."
Solange studies me for a long moment. "You packed a bag specifically to avoid going home. Now you're choosing to go back anyway. What changed?"
"I thought I needed distance from the surveillance. Turns out what I actually need is to stop running from choices I've already made." I stand, collecting my things. "Besides, someone is watching those cameras. If I don't go home, he'll worry."
"'He'll worry,'" Solange repeats with a slight smile. "You're really doing this. Choosing him despite all the complications."
"I'm not choosing him. We agreed to wait until—"
"You're choosing him," she interrupts gently.
"Maybe not acting on it yet, but the choice is already made.
I can see it in your face when you read his texts.
The way you trust him even though trusting men who surveil you is exactly what got you trapped before.
" She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "I'm not saying it's wrong.
I'm saying be honest about what you're doing. "
She's right. The choice is already made, and has been made since the moment I looked into that Camera at The Dominion three weeks ago and knew someone was watching. Since I negotiated surveillance terms instead of rejecting monitoring entirely. Since I kissed him this morning and didn't pull away.
I'm choosing Jax despite—or maybe because of—the complications.
"Okay," I admit. "I'm choosing him. Terrified, confused, aware it might be catastrophic judgment. But choosing him anyway."
"Then choose consciously. With eyes open. Knowing the risks." She squeezes my hand again before releasing it. "And promise me you'll keep checking in. That you won't disappear into this the way you disappeared into Gabriel."
"I promise."
I leave Solange's apartment at 10:47 PM with half a bottle of wine and the weight of admissions that feel both liberating and terrifying.
The subway ride back to The Margin takes twenty-three minutes, and I spend them thinking about choices and consequences and whether choosing connection despite risk is bravery or just another form of self-destruction.
My building appears through late-night streets that feel less threatening than they did a week ago. Someone is watching. Someone knows I'm walking home. Someone would notice if I didn't arrive safely.
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
I climb three flights of stairs, unlock my door with keys that don't shake this time, step into my apartment that no longer feels as empty as it did this morning.
The cameras are watching. I'm aware of them now in ways I wasn't before—the entrance feed capturing me coming through the door, the living room angle that shows me setting down my bag, the kitchen camera that would catch me if I made tea I don't actually want.
I pull out my phone, open the camera app, look at the feeds showing my own apartment from six different angles. I could disable them. Could shut off every camera, reclaim privacy Jax offered me control over.
Instead, I pull up his contact, type a message: I'm home. Safe. Going to bed soon.
His response comes within a minute: Good. Sleep well.
That could be the end of it—professional check-in, boundaries maintained. But then another text arrives:
Thank you for letting me know. I saw you left with a bag earlier and wasn't sure if you were coming back tonight.
The text is simple enough—he saw me leave with a bag, wasn't sure about my plans. Not possessive or controlling. Just... aware. The way someone who's watching is inevitably aware.
I could leave it there. Professional acknowledgment, boundaries maintained.
Instead, I type: Changed my mind about staying away. Turns out I'd rather be here.
His response takes longer this time: I understand that feeling.
I set my phone on the nightstand before I can read more into the words than they probably carry. Change into sleep clothes, take my pill that barely works anymore, climb into bed.
But the truth sits in my chest heavier than the medication: coming home instead of staying at Solange's was a choice. Not just about comfort or convenience, but about accepting that being watched by someone who asks permission feels different from being watched by someone who demands compliance.
I'm choosing the apartment with cameras. Choosing transparency over privacy. Choosing Jax even though we agreed to wait.
The ceiling fan rotates overhead. I count the rotations out of habit more than necessity. Somewhere across the city, Jax is probably watching the apartment feeds, confirming I'm home and safe and not in danger.
I close my eyes and let the sleeping pill drag me under, counting heartbeats until they return to normal, grateful that for once the choice to be watched was mine.