CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT LANA
I wake to sunlight streaming through windows, in an apartment that belongs to me, with Jax's arm draped across my waist like an anchor to something real.
For a moment I just exist in this feeling—safe, settled, loved—before the reality of what we need to do today crashes back in. Agent Reeves. The files. Federal investigation. Protective custody that could last months.
But right now, none of that has happened yet. Right now, I'm just a woman waking up next to the man she loves in a home they're building together.
Jax stirs behind me, pulls me closer against his chest, and I can feel he's already awake from the way his hand splays across my stomach with possessive familiarity. "Morning," he murmurs against my neck.
"Morning." I turn in his arms and find him watching me with an expression that's part tenderness, part residual heat from last night. "We should probably find those sheets at some point."
"Probably." His hand slides up my side, tracing the curve of my ribs with fingers that know exactly how to make me shiver. "Or we could just stay here and christen a few more surfaces before we have to deal with reality."
The suggestion sends want pooling in my belly, but I force myself to focus. "We need to call Agent Reeves. The sooner we hand everything over, the sooner this actually ends."
"I know." He presses a kiss to my forehead, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. "But I texted Elias last night after we unpacked a few boxes. He coordinated with Agent Reeves - she's expecting our call at two PM. We have time."
Time. Such a luxury after weeks of living crisis to crisis, never knowing if we'd survive long enough to plan more than a few hours ahead.
Now we have an entire morning stretching before us—empty and ours and full of mundane possibilities like coffee and unpacking boxes and maybe, if we're lucky, the kind of intimacy that comes from choosing each other without fear driving the decision.
"Coffee first," I say, because I need caffeine before I can process anything more complicated than basic human function. "Then we figure out what to tell Solange, how to coordinate the file transfer, all of it."
"Coffee first," he agrees, already untangling himself from me and reaching for his jeans.
We navigate the apartment in various states of undress, finally locating the box with the coffee maker and mugs buried under kitchen supplies we haven't sorted yet.
Jax handles the brewing while I find my phone and start composing a message to Solange about needing to meet today, preferably before our call with Agent Reeves.
Her response comes back almost immediately: Already compiled everything. Can meet whenever you need. This is the right move, Lana.
I show Jax the message, watch him nod with the grim satisfaction of someone who knows we're doing the only thing that makes sense. "She can meet us here in an hour," he says, already checking his watch. "That gives us time to review everything before we call Reeves at two."
"Perfect." I accept the coffee mug he hands me and take that first perfect sip that makes consciousness feel bearable. "And after? Once we've handed everything over and set this in motion?"
"Then we wait." His expression darkens with the reality we're both avoiding.
"Reeves will want to verify the files, cross-reference the information, and probably interview us separately to confirm our stories match.
It could be days before she's ready to move forward with arrests, and during that time, you're vulnerable. "
"We're vulnerable," I correct, because he keeps forgetting he's part of this equation too. "The Glasshouse won't just target me if they figure out those who have helped me with this, those who have seen the files."
"Which is why I already texted Brandon about increasing security protocols until federal protection kicks in.
" He pulls out his phone, shows me the message thread.
"Andre is downstairs in the parking garage.
Derek is covering the building entrance.
No one gets to you without going through them first."
The fact that he arranged this without telling me should probably bother me more than it does. Instead I just feel grateful that someone is thinking tactically while I'm still processing the emotional weight of what we're about to do.
"I have therapy at eleven," I say, because Dr. Cross scheduled an emergency session after I called her about the recovered memory. "I need to tell her everything before I hand it over to the FBI. Process it properly so I'm not just dumping unfiltered trauma onto federal investigators."
Jax sets down his coffee mug, gives me his full attention in ways that still catch me off guard. "What do you remember? About that night with Gabriel?"
I've been avoiding this conversation since the parking garage, but he deserves to know before I tell my therapist, before I testify to federal agents, before it becomes part of some official record that reduces my husband's death to evidence in a criminal case.
"We were on the terrace," I start, and my voice sounds distant even to my own ears. "It was storming. He was drunk, furious, interrogating me about where I'd been spending my afternoons."
Jax doesn't interrupt, just waits with the patience of someone who understands trauma memories don't come out in neat linear narratives.
"He kept backing me toward the railing, demanding I apologize for disrespecting him.
Then he grabbed my shoulders, started shaking me violently, spinning us both around in his rage.
" My hands are shaking now, coffee mug trembling enough that I have to set it down before I spill everywhere.
"My hands were on his chest—trying to push him away, trying to get free of his grip.
And then his foot slipped on the wet stone. "
"Then he fell," Jax says carefully, giving me space to continue.
"His weight shifted backward. The momentum was already carrying him toward the drop.
My hands were still on his chest, but suddenly they were the only thing between him and falling.
" The memory is crystal clear now, sharp-edged and terrible.
"I tried to hold on. I did. But he was too heavy, and the rain made everything slick and he just slid through my grip.
I watched him go over the railing and I couldn't stop it, couldn't save him, and underneath all the horror and guilt, I felt—"
"Relief," Jax finishes when I can't.
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Relief that he was gone. That I'd never have to endure his control again. That I survived him. And that relief has been eating me alive for six months, making me think I must have wanted him dead even though I tried to hold on."
"Lana." Jax crosses to where I'm standing, frames my face with hands that are infinitely gentle. "You didn't kill him. You defended yourself, and then you tried to save him when he fell. The fact that you felt relief afterward doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human."
"Dr. Cross said something similar when I told her about the memory yesterday.
" I lean into his touch, letting him ground me in the present instead of drowning in the past. "But I've been carrying six months of guilt over a death I didn't cause, and now I have to reconcile that with the relief I felt, and it's—"
"A lot," he says simply. "Which is why therapy before federal testimony is the right call. You need to process this for yourself before you have to explain it to investigators who are looking for criminal liability rather than psychological truth."
I nod, accepting that he's right even though the prospect of sitting in Dr. Cross's office and unpacking all of this feels overwhelming. "Will you come with me? To the session?"
"If you want me there, yes." No hesitation, no questioning whether that's appropriate. Just immediate agreement to show up however I need him.
"I want you there." I pull him closer and rest my forehead against his chest. "I don't want to process this alone anymore. I've been alone with it for too long already."
His arms come around me, holding me while I fragment slightly at the edges. This is what love looks like when it's real—not someone trying to fix you or tell you how to feel, but someone willing to sit with you in the wreckage and help you sort through the pieces.
We stand like that until my coffee gets cold and the morning light shifts across the apartment floor. Eventually I pull back, wipe my eyes, and force myself to focus on the practical steps ahead.
"Solange will be here in forty-five minutes," I say, checking the time. "We should probably be wearing more than just underwear when she arrives."
That gets a small smile from him. "Probably a good idea.”
I move toward the bedroom where boxes of clothes are waiting to be unpacked. "Though knowing Solange, she'd just make some comment about me finally living my life."
By the time Solange arrives, we're both dressed and marginally more prepared to discuss federal investigations over coffee in an apartment that still looks like a moving truck exploded inside it.
She comes bearing a laptop bag and the kind of focused intensity that suggests she's been up all-night organizing files.
"This is everything," she says, setting up her laptop on the kitchen counter and pulling up a complex file structure.
"Financial transactions organized by date and recipient.
Communications between Gabriel and known Glasshouse operatives.
Blackmail material categorized by target.
Shell corporation documents showing how money moved through offshore accounts.
And the big one—a complete organizational chart showing everyone from street-level operatives to political connections at the state and federal level. "
Jax leans over her shoulder, scanning the information with professional assessment. "This is comprehensive. How much of it is encrypted?"