CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO LANA
I wake to find the bed empty beside me, Jax's side already cold enough to suggest he's been up for a while.
I can hear his voice from outside the room—on a phone call, professional tone, probably coordinating something security-related.
The safe house bedroom is small but functional, morning light filtering through curtains we forgot to fully close last night.
I get out of bed, pull on Jax’s shirt, and make my way toward his voice.
He's at the kitchen table, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear while he discusses something with someone who must be Brandon about security protocols and apartment listings.
The sight is oddly domestic—my surveillance expert turned lover handling the necessary details over coffee while I'm still half-asleep and wearing his shirt.
He notices me, holds up a finger in the universal gesture for "one minute," and finishes his call with professional efficiency. "Brandon's sending over three apartment options in The Crest. All vetted for security, all available for immediate occupancy."
"Good morning to you too." I'm already moving toward the coffee he's already made, reaching for a mug. "What time is it?"
"Nine-thirty. You have brunch with Solange at eleven, which gives you ninety minutes to get ready and mentally prepare for interrogation. Derek will drive you. I'll stay here like we agreed."
"You remembered." I take the coffee, grateful for the caffeine and the fact that he's actually keeping his promise about not inserting himself into my friendship with Solange.
My burner phone buzzes on the counter—Mira's name on the screen. I answer, switching to speaker so Jax can hear. "Mira, good morning."
"Lana. I need to talk to you about a development with Ezra. Do you have a few minutes?"
"I'm here. What happened?" I'm already feeling my stomach tighten with unease.
"Ezra's legal team reached out yesterday afternoon.
Remember how he dropped the estate case last month after we threatened discovery?
We thought it was over." Mira's voice carries frustration.
"Now they're back with a different angle.
Ezra claims he and Gabriel had joint investments in several of Gabriel's venture capital deals—that he put his own money into various portfolios alongside Gabriel's capital.
Says now that Gabriel is dead and you control everything, his money is tied up and he can't access it. "
"Joint investments?" I exchange glances with Jax who's already looking skeptical. "Gabriel never mentioned anything about Ezra investing with him."
"That's because it's likely fabricated. But it's a harder claim to dismiss than the estate challenge was—joint business investments are common among family members, and proving he didn't invest requires examining records.
" She pauses. "His attorneys are requesting a meeting.
Wednesday afternoon. They want to negotiate a 'buyout' of his supposed stake in these ventures. "
"What do you think?" I'm trying to read whether Mira considers this legitimate or just another harassment tactic.
"I think it's a fishing expedition. He wants access to Gabriel's business files to see what you have and what you know.
But we can't just ignore it—if he files a formal claim alleging joint investments, we'd have to respond through discovery anyway.
" Her tone shifts to strategic. "I told his attorneys that if they want this meeting, Ezra needs to bring documentation proving he invested anything—bank statements, wire transfers, investment agreements, anything that shows his money went into Gabriel's deals. They agreed."
"So Wednesday he shows up with fake documents or no documents at all, and we expose the claim as frivolous." Jax has moved closer, listening intently.
"Exactly. And when he can't prove his claim, we use the same discovery threats that worked last time—expose his Glasshouse campaign funding.
But this time we make it clear: come back with another frivolous claim and we don't just threaten discovery, we actually file and make everything public.
" Mira's typing something in the background.
"He dropped the estate case when we threatened his political career.
Now he's back testing whether we were bluffing. Wednesday we prove we weren't."
"So this meeting is about calling his bluff. Again." I can hear the exhaustion in my own voice.
"Unfortunately, yes. He's either being pressured to keep trying, or he genuinely thinks we won't follow through on exposure.
" Her tone hardens. "Wednesday we make it clear this is his last chance.
Drop everything, sign NDAs, disappear—or we destroy his political aspirations before they begin.
But Lana, this means preparing for a meeting that could go badly. Are you comfortable with that?"
"Do I have a choice?" The question comes out more resigned than I intend.
"You always have a choice. We can refuse the meeting, wait for him to file formal claims, drag this out for months through courts.
But my professional opinion? Take the meeting on our terms. My office, my team present, your security in the room.
Force this to conclusion on Wednesday instead of letting it drag on. "
I look at Jax who nods once—he's already thinking through security protocols for Wednesday. "Okay. Schedule the meeting. But I want Jax there, not just outside."
"Already planned on it. I'll coordinate with Ezra's team, send you the proposed meeting parameters by tonight. You focus on processing this new development." She pauses. "And Lana? Be careful. This joint investment claim might be a pretext for something else entirely."
After we hang up, Jax is already texting Brandon about Wednesday security. "Ezra dropped one case and immediately came back with another. Someone's pressuring him to maintain contact, to keep assessing what you know."
"The Glasshouse." I'm stating it as fact rather than a question.
"The Glasshouse. Which means Wednesday isn't about joint investments. It's about determining if you're a threat." His expression is grim. "But we'll deal with that after you survive Solange's interrogation. One confrontation at a time."
He’s right. Solange is going to have questions, opinions, and concerns about me sleeping with Jax that require my full attention rather than being distracted by Ezra’s back and forth.
I shower and change into clothes that say "I'm fine" rather than "I've spent three days having sex in a safe house while being hunted by my dead husband's associates and brother.
" The transformation is mostly successful, though the marks on my neck from Jax's teeth last night are visible enough that I have to adjust my collar twice before giving up and accepting that Solange will notice regardless.
At 10:45, Derek arrives to drive me to Solange's townhouse. Jax walks me to the door, kisses me once with enough intensity to suggest he's already thinking about tonight, then steps back with professional distance that feels jarring after the intimacy of the past thirty-six hours.
"Be honest with her," he says. "She deserves that."
"I know." I do know. Solange has been my anchor through everything. She's earned honesty even when that honesty reveals choices she might not approve of.
The drive to Solange’s takes twenty minutes. Derek maintains professional presence without trying to make conversation, for which I'm grateful. My head is too full of preparing for Solange's interrogation to manage small talk about weather or weekend plans.
Solange answers the door before I can knock and pulls me inside with less ceremony than yesterday's professional distance at the foundation office. "Now we can actually talk without pretending everything's fine."
"I wasn't pretending everything's fine. I was just avoiding the conversation we're about to have." I follow her inside, past Derek who positions himself in the entryway with sight lines to both the street and interior.
"Coffee or mimosas?" she asks, leading me toward her kitchen.
"Coffee. Definitely coffee." I need to be sharp for this conversation, not buzzed on champagne at eleven AM.
Her kitchen is small and functional, similar to mine—basic appliances, limited counter space, the kind of setup meant for quick meals rather than elaborate cooking.
She's already prepared food—fruit, pastries, eggs benedict that smell better than anything I've eaten in days.
We settle at her small dining table with plates full of food I'm not sure I can actually eat given the anxiety currently occupying my stomach.
"So," Solange says, not bothering with preamble. "Are you going to tell me what's actually happening with your surveillance expert, or am I supposed to pretend I didn't notice the way you flinched when I mentioned him yesterday?"
The directness shouldn't surprise me. Solange has never been one for subtle approaches. "I'm sleeping with him. With Jax." I blurt it out as I find no other reasonable way for me to do this.
"I figured as much when you showed up in a turtleneck." She gestures at my collar with her coffee mug. "The marks on your neck are fairly obvious if someone's actually looking, and you're not usually one for high necklines."
"And you're sleeping with him because...?" She's watching me over her coffee mug, expression carefully neutral in ways that suggest she's withholding judgment until she hears my reasoning.
"Because I want to. Because he makes me feel things I forgot were possible after five years with Gabriel.
Because surveillance and attraction aren't mutually exclusive when the surveillance is chosen rather than imposed.
" I'm being as honest as I know how, even though I can see her processing each statement with the critical assessment of someone who loves me enough to be concerned.