CHAPTER FOURTEEN LANA
I don't sleep, can't sleep. I keep replaying the sensation of Jax's hands under my sweater, the way his mouth felt against my neck, the moment when I pushed him away even though every nerve in my body was screaming to pull him closer.
Three forty-seven AM. I've been staring at my bedroom ceiling for two hours, trying to convince myself that stopping was the right decision.
That crossing that line would have been catastrophic.
That we need to talk first, establish what this actually is before we complicate it with physical intimacy.
But my body doesn't care about rational analysis. My body only knows that it wanted him, that the wanting didn't feel like acting or strategy or any of the calculated moves I made with Gabriel. It felt real. Messy and complicated and terrifying, but real.
My phone sits on the nightstand, the screen dark.
Jax hasn't texted since we said goodnight.
Part of me wants to reach for it, to send him some message that bridges the gap between wanting and having, between stopping and continuing.
But what would I even say? Come back and finish what we started?
That's exactly the kind of impulsive decision we're trying to avoid.
I get out of bed at four-thirty because lying there pretending I might sleep is its own kind of torture.
I make coffee in the kitchen where a few hours ago we were kissing like the world was ending.
The wine glasses we never used still sit on the counter.
I put them away, wipe down surfaces that don't need wiping, and go through the ritual of making my space feel normal again.
The camera I now discover to be near my bookshelf watches me move through the living room.
I'm hyperaware of it now in a way I wasn't before—aware that somewhere, recorded on whatever server Jax uses for storage, there's footage of us on my couch.
His hands on my skin. My sweater coming off.
The moment when I stopped us before we crossed the line completely.
The thought unsettles me in ways I can't quite articulate. Not because I'm ashamed of what happened, but because surveillance and intimacy are now entangled in ways that feel impossible to separate.
At four forty-seven, I give up pretending I can process this alone and text Solange: You awake?
Her response comes three minutes later: I am now. What's wrong?
Me: Ezra dropped the will contest. Mira called last night.
Solange: That's incredible! Are you okay?
Me: Yes. No. I don't know.
Solange: Did Jax come over?
Of course she knows. Solange has been reading my patterns since we met six years ago, and she’s the one that caught it when I was still pretending my marriage to Gabriel was functional.
Me: Yes.
Solange: And?
Me: And we almost made a catastrophically poor decision. But we stopped. Talked about needing to figure out if this is real before we complicate it further.
Solange: You stopped. That's progress.
Me: Doesn't feel like progress. Feels like torture.
Solange: Good torture or bad torture?
Me: Both. All of it. I don't know anymore.
The dots appear and disappear three times before her response comes: Come to my place for breakfast. 7 AM. You shouldn't be alone processing this.
She's right. Being alone with my thoughts at five in the morning is exactly how I spiral into places that don't serve me. I type back: I'll be there.
The next two hours pass with glacial slowness.
I shower, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of Jax's hands on my skin.
Get dressed in fresh jeans and a sweater that's deliberately different from what I wore last night.
Make more coffee I don't need. Check my phone every ten minutes to see if Jax has texted, even though I told myself I wouldn't be that person.
At six-forty-five, my phone finally vibrates. It’s a text from him: Did you sleep?
Me: No. You?
Jax: Not really. Kept replaying everything.
Me: Same. I'm going to Solange's for breakfast. Need to process with someone who isn't you.
Jax: That's probably smart. Can we talk later? Actually talk, not just text?
Me: Yes. After work? I'll be at the foundation until six.
Jax: I'll come by. We'll figure this out.
I stare at his message, trying to decode tone through text. Figure this out could mean anything—establish boundaries, admit we want each other, decide this is too complicated and we need distance. The ambiguity makes my chest tight.
Solange's apartment is fifteen minutes from mine.
She opens the door wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. This is Solange in her natural state, before she puts on the armor of professionalism required for running the foundation with me.
"You look like hell," she says, pulling me into a hug that I didn't know I needed.
"Thanks. That's helpful."
"I'm not here to be helpful. I'm here to be honest." She guides me into her kitchen where she's already made coffee and set out fruit and pastries from the bakery three blocks away. "Sit. Eat. Tell me everything."
So I do. I tell her about Mira's call, about Jax coming over, about the kissing that escalated faster than either of us intended. About stopping before we crossed the final line, about the conversation afterward where we agreed to figure out if this is real.
Solange listens without interrupting, which is how I know she's taking this seriously. When I finish, she pours more coffee for both of us and sits across from me at her kitchen table.
"Okay," she says. "So you stopped. That's actually impressive given that you've been circling each other for weeks."
"Doesn't feel impressive. Feels like torture."
"Good torture or bad torture?" She's smiling now, the kind of smile that says she's on my side even when she's pushing me to think clearly.
"Both. All of it. I don't know anymore." I tear off a piece of croissant without eating it. "Solange, what if I'm wrong about him? What if this whole thing is just me mistaking surveillance for intimacy?"
"Then you'll figure that out and walk away.
But Lana—" She leans forward, voice firm.
"You've spent the last three weeks questioning everything about this.
At some point you have to trust your own judgment.
You stopped last night because you wanted to make sure this was real.
That's healthy. That's you making good decisions. "
The validation lands with unexpected force. I've been so busy analyzing every angle that I forgot to give myself credit for the boundaries I've actually maintained.
"So what do I do now?"
"You have the conversation you promised to have.
You figure out what you want—not what's safe, not what's strategic, but what you actually want.
Then you decide if Jax fits into that or not.
" She takes a bite of pastry and chews thoughtfully.
"The legal threat is over. Ezra's done. That removes one massive source of external pressure.
Now you get to figure out if what's between you and Jax survives without crisis. "
My phone vibrates with a text from Jax: Trask was outside your building this morning. Left around 6 AM. I have photos if you want them.
I show Solange the message. Her expression shifts from supportive to concerned.
"Ezra dropped the will contest, but he didn't call off his dogs." She's already pulling out her own phone. "We need to deal with this differently now. Not through Jax's surveillance—through legal channels. Restraining order. Official documentation."
"Mira said we couldn't get a restraining order because Trask hasn't technically threatened me. He's just photographing in public spaces."
"Then we make it expensive for Ezra to keep funding him.
I'll call Mira this morning, see what options we have for harassment charges or civil suits.
" Solange is already typing notes. "But Lana, you need to hear this—if you and Jax are going to be together, you can't be dependent on him for your safety.
That's not sustainable. That's not healthy. "
"So what am I supposed to do? Pretend the threats don't exist?"
"No. You hire actual security. Professional protection that isn't emotionally complicated.
" She looks up from her phone. "If Jax wants to be your boyfriend—or whatever you two are figuring out—then he needs to stop being your security system.
Those roles can't coexist without creating exactly the kind of power imbalance you're trying to avoid. "
The assessment is uncomfortable but accurate. As long as Jax is the one monitoring threats, documenting Trask's movements, keeping me safe through surveillance, I'm dependent on him in ways that make equal partnership impossible.
"I'll talk to him tonight," I say. "About all of it. The surveillance, the security, what we want this to be."
"Good." Solange reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. "And Lana? Whatever you decide, I've got your back. Always."
My phone vibrates again. Another text from Jax: Can we move our conversation up? I need to tell you something about Trask. It's not urgent but it's important.
Me: What is it?
Jax: Not over text. Can you come to my place after you're done with Solange? I'm home until noon.
I show Solange the messages. She raises an eyebrow.
"Well, I guess your conversation is happening sooner than tonight." She stands, starts clearing the table. "Go. Figure this out. And text me after so I know you're okay."
I'm back in my car when my phone vibrates again. Text from Jax: 2847 Morrison Street, apartment 4D. Fourth floor walk-up, elevator is broken. Let me know when you're close.