CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT LANA #2
"About thirty percent of the deepest files are still locked behind encryption I couldn't break without better resources.
" Solange pulls up a separate folder. "But Agent Reeves should have access to NSA-level decryption tools.
If she's been building this case for two years, she'll know how to handle sophisticated security. "
I'm looking at the organizational chart, seeing names I recognize from news articles and political fundraisers, from Gabriel's social circle and business dealings.
These are people with power, people who thought they were protected by wealth and connections and the assumption that no one would be brave enough or stupid enough to challenge them.
"Once we hand this over, there's no taking it back," I say, because someone needs to acknowledge the finality of what we're doing. "These people will know I provided the evidence. They'll come after me with everything they have."
"Which is why Agent Reeves will put you in protective custody immediately.
" Solange closes the laptop, meets my eyes with fierce determination.
"Lana, The Glasshouse has been threatening you for weeks now.
This is how you stop being scared. You give the FBI everything they need to dismantle the entire operation, and you trust that federal protection is stronger than private security. "
"She's right," Jax adds, though I can see the tension in his jaw at the prospect of trusting anyone else with my safety. "This is the only way to actually eliminate the threat instead of just managing it."
I look at both of them—Solange who's been researching and organizing and preparing for this moment, Jax who's been protecting me. And I realize they're offering me something Gabriel never did. A choice. The ability to take action instead of just enduring what happens to me.
"Then we call Agent Reeves at two," I say, and my voice is steady despite the fear. "We give her everything. And we do whatever it takes to tear The Glasshouse down completely."
Solange pulls a small external drive from her laptop bag, holds it up.
"Everything's on here. Encrypted, organized by category, ready for Agent Reeves's team.
When you meet with her, you hand this over directly.
No digital transfer, no interceptable signals.
Just physical custody passing from you to federal investigators. "
"You're not sending it electronically?" I ask.
"Too risky." Solange's expression is grim.
"The Glasshouse has resources, connections, people who monitor data traffic.
The moment an encrypted file that size moves through any network, someone could flag it, trace it back to me or the foundation.
This way, it goes from my hand to yours to Agent Reeves.
Clean chain of custody, no digital footprint. "
"That's smart," Jax says, clearly approving of the operational security. "Agent Reeves will appreciate the precaution too. Shows we understand the threat level."
Solange meets my eyes with fierce determination.
"Once you hand this over, the FBI has everything they need to dismantle The Glasshouse completely.
But until that drive is in federal custody, we're all vulnerable.
So you call Agent Reeves, you arrange the meeting, and you don't leave that drive sitting around where anyone could access it. "
The reality of how quickly my life is about to change hits me with physical force.
I look around at my new space, this apartment I just moved into, this home I was supposed to build with Jax, this normal life I thought I'd finally have—all of it on hold indefinitely while federal investigators use Gabriel's files to prosecute people who thought they were untouchable, while I go into protective custody.
"Hey." Jax's hand finds mine, squeezes gently, reading my thoughts by the look on my face. "This isn't permanent. It's just until the major arrests are made. Then you come back here, and we finish unpacking these boxes and we build the life you deserve."
"We build the life we deserve," I correct.
"We build the life we deserve," he agrees.
Solange starts gathering her laptop and equipment, clearly giving us space before therapy and federal calls and everything that comes after. "Whatever else you need after you talk to Reeves. Just text me."
When she's gone, Jax and I are left in the apartment we've barely started living in, surrounded by boxes we haven't unpacked, building a future we're about to put on hold for an indefinite timeline.
"We should get ready for therapy," I say, even though what I really want is to crawl back into bed and pretend today isn't happening.
"We should," he agrees, but neither of us moves.
Instead we stand in the kitchen of my new apartment, holding hands like teenagers, stealing a few more minutes of normalcy before everything changes again.
"Dr. Cross already knows the basics," I tell him, because we discussed this on the phone yesterday when I called her about the recovered memory. "She'll want to process it more deeply during the session, but she understands what happened. What I remembered."
"Good." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "That makes today easier. You don't have to explain everything from scratch."
"Just refine it. Process the guilt, the relief, prepare for what federal investigators might ask." I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted by the weight of what's coming. "We have three hours before we need to leave for her office."
Three hours. Three hours of normalcy before therapy sessions and FBI calls and possibly protective custody. Three hours before everything gets complicated again.
Jax seems to read my thoughts. He pulls me closer, frames my face with his hands, and when he kisses me it's with the kind of tenderness that makes my throat tight. "We don't have to spend these hours being anxious," he says against my mouth. "We could spend them doing something else. Together."
"In my apartment." The words come out soft, almost wondering. "Making it ours before we have to leave it."
"Exactly." His hands slide down my sides, settle on my hips with possessive familiarity. "We christened the bedroom yesterday. But there are other rooms. Other surfaces."
Heat pools in my belly at the suggestion, at the promise in his voice. "You want to—"
"I want to make love to you in every room of this apartment," he says, and his voice has dropped to that register that makes me shiver.
The idea sends want coursing through me. "The living room," I hear myself say. "I want—I want to remember us there. On the couch we picked out together."
His eyes darken with desire. "Then that's where we'll be."
We move toward the couch, both of us navigating around unpacked boxes with the same focus we had last night. But this feels different—less about christening virgin territory and more about claiming space that's already ours, layering new memories over old fears.
When we get to the couch, I sit, and he follows me down with the kind of controlled grace that comes from knowing exactly what he wants. His mouth finds mine, kisses me deeply while his hands work the buttons of my shirt with practiced efficiency.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he murmurs against my lips.
"So are you." I tug at his shirt, help him pull it over his head, let my hands explore the terrain of muscle and warm skin I've touched before but never tire of discovering.
His body is familiar now in ways that feel earned rather than stolen—every scar, every line of definition, every place that makes him gasp when I touch it properly.
He strips me down with the same careful attention, removing each piece of clothing like he's unwrapping something precious. When I'm naked on the couch, he sits back on his heels and just looks at me.
"Beautiful," he says, and the word carries weight beyond physical appearance. "Every part of you. Everything you've survived, everything you've built, everything you're choosing."
I reach for him, pull him down until his weight settles over me, and the feeling of skin against skin makes me arch into him with desperate need. "Show me," I tell him.
He kisses me deeply, his hands everywhere—my breasts, my ribs, the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh. Each touch is deliberate, intentional, designed to build pleasure gradually instead of racing toward release. This is him learning my body, cataloging what makes me gasp and shiver and beg.
When his fingers finally slide between my legs, they find me wet and ready, I can't suppress the sound that escapes—half gasp, half moan, entirely need.
"Already?" he asks, and there's satisfaction in his voice.
"Always ready for you." I arch into his touch, chase the friction I need. "When you look at me like that, when you touch me like I'm—"
"Like you're mine," he finishes, and his fingers press inside me with confidence born of familiarity. "Because you are. Not owned, not possessed, but chosen. Mine because you decided to be."
The distinction matters. Gabriel tried to own me, tried to turn me into property he could control. Jax chooses me, and I choose him back, and that mutual decision transforms possession into partnership.
His fingers work inside me with skilled precision, finding the spot that makes me tighten around him, building pleasure in waves that threaten to overwhelm.
I'm climbing toward release faster than expected, my body responding to his touch with the kind of trust that only comes from safety earned through confession.
"Not yet," I gasp out, because I want him inside me when I come, want to feel that connection when pleasure breaks over me. "Jax, please—"
He understands immediately. His fingers withdraw, leaving me empty and aching, but then he's positioning himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance with the kind of pressure that makes me whimper.
"Look at me," he says, echoing his command from last night. "Stay with me."
I open my eyes, hold his gaze while he pushes inside with aching tenderness. The stretch and fullness is perfect, overwhelming, exactly what I need. He fills me completely and then stills, giving me time to adjust, letting me feel the weight of him inside me.
"I love you," I tell him, because the words feel necessary in this moment.
"I love you too." He starts moving, finding the rhythm that works for both of us, and the couch beneath us creaks with each thrust in ways that feel domestic and perfect.
His hands slide up my body, cup my breasts with possessive warmth. His thumbs circle my nipples, teasing them into hard peaks before he pinches gently—just enough pressure to make me gasp and arch into his touch.
"Jax—" His name breaks on my lips as he does it again, this time rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers while maintaining that perfect rhythm inside me.
The dual sensation—the fullness of him moving inside me combined with the focused attention on my breasts—builds heat that threatens to consume me. Every thrust drives me higher, every caress of my nipples sends electricity straight through my core.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, watching my face as he continues the torment. "I love watching you come apart."
One hand stays on my breast, continuing its work, while the other slides down between us.
His thumb finds my clit, circles it with perfect pressure timed to match his thrusts.
The combination of sensations—him inside me, his hand on my breast, that grinding pressure—pushes me toward the edge faster than I expected.
I'm climbing toward release now, my body responding to him with complete trust. The tension coils tighter, every nerve ending alive with sensation, and I can feel myself getting close.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough with his own approaching climax, and the command combined with everything he's doing to my body is exactly what I need.
Pleasure crashes through me in waves that steal my breath, make my whole body tighten around him. I cry out his name, hands clutching his shoulders, riding the sensation until I'm trembling and spent.
He follows me over the edge moments later, his body going rigid as he comes inside me with my name on his lips.
We collapse together on the couch, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat, both of us trembling with aftershocks. The mid-morning light coming through those floor-to-ceiling windows paints patterns across our tangled limbs, illuminating the space we've just claimed together.
We lie there until our breathing normalizes, until the sweat cools on our skin, until reality starts creeping back in with reminders of therapy appointments and FBI calls.
Eventually Jax shifts, pulls me up with him, and we navigate toward the bathroom with the kind of comfortable intimacy that comes from choosing each other repeatedly.
The shower is large enough for two—another selling point of this apartment—and we wash each other with gentle efficiency, reclaiming domestic routines through touch.
This is what partnership looks like: helping each other clean up, stealing kisses under hot water, existing together in mundane moments that feel sacred precisely because they're ordinary.
By the time we're dressed and ready to leave for Dr. Cross's office, I feel more settled. Still anxious about what's coming, still scared of federal investigation and protective custody, but grounded in the knowledge that whatever happens next, I'm not facing it alone.
"Ready?" Jax asks, his hand finding mine.
"As ready as I'll ever be." I take one last look at the apartment—the boxes, the furniture, the home we're building together. "Let's go."
The therapy session is productive in ways I needed—Dr. Cross helping me separate guilt from responsibility, preparing me for the kinds of questions federal investigators might ask, giving me frameworks for talking about Gabriel's death clearly and factually without the emotional weight making me seem evasive or suspicious.
When we're done, we drive back to the apartment where Agent Reeves is expecting our call.