Chapter 23 Lena
LENA
I'm halfway through editing a batch of photos when my phone vibrates beside my laptop.
I've been staring at the same set of maternity shots for an hour, trying to fix the lighting around the mother's hair without blowing out the background.
Freelance photography looks glamorous on Instagram, but the real job is hours of squinting at pixels and convincing yourself the color blue has eighteen moods.
The screen lights up with Gabe's name.
My stomach jumps before I can help it. For a second, I brace myself for more fallout, more tension, more town nonsense waiting to land on my head. But when I answer, his voice is steady.
"Are you free for a coffee?"
He doesn't sound stern or angry or like he's holding back something sharp. He's just Gabe, asking me a question.
I glance at the time. Jace is at Theo's house—one of his little buddies from preschool—and he won't be back until late afternoon. His friend's mom texted earlier that they were building a fort out of couch cushions and refusing to let adults in without a password.
So technically, yes. I'm free.
"Yeah," I say, shutting my laptop. "Ten minutes."
"I'll meet you there."
He hangs up, just like that. I pack up my laptop, grab my keys, and head out before I talk myself into another spiral.
The cafe is two blocks down, tucked between a florist and a hair salon.
The moment I step inside, the smell of espresso and warm pastries hits me, and for a heartbeat I almost forget that everyone in this town has been acting like I committed a felony by having feelings.
Gabe is already there, sitting at a booth near the window. Black T-shirt, forearms on the table, calm expression masking something deeper. He stands when he sees me, that ridiculous gentlemanly thing he does even when it's not necessary.
"Hey," I say as I slide into the seat across from him.
He sits back down and studies my face carefully. I'm the first one to look away.
The waitress arrives, bright-eyed and way too excited to take our order.
She gives Gabe a little smile like she's auditioning for something.
Then she glances at me and her smile tightens.
She asks if we want anything, and Gabe orders for both of us—black coffee for him, masala chai for me.
She walks off, but not before glancing back twice.
I groan under my breath. "Why do people stare like I'm a circus act?"
"They don't stare at you," he says. "They stare at us."
"That's worse."
He folds his hands on the table. "Small towns talk because they're bored. They don't have enough drama of their own, so they adopt someone else's. It's not about truth. It's about entertainment."
I look out the window, watching a teenager walk her dog. "I hate it."
"I know. And I won't pretend it's fun, but you have to decide something." His voice stays calm. He's not pushing. He's giving me space to walk into whatever truth I need to reach. "Do you want to keep living by their rules, or yours?"
My throat tightens. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"No one ever does." He reaches for his cup as the waitress sets it down, then waits until she's gone before continuing. "But you're not powerless here. You get to choose how much room these people take up in your head. You get to choose whether their whispering changes anything about your life."
I run a finger along the rim of my mug. "Easy for you to say."
"No," he answers, leaning forward. "Not easy. Just true."
His gaze holds mine, steady and patient, but not soft. There's an invitation in his eyes—nothing pushy, nothing demanding—just an open door.
"I told you last night," he says, "I'm handling Tom. Whether you and I are together or not doesn't change that. He crossed a line. You don't let people like that keep walking. And I won't."
My heart stutters. "You found something, didn't you?"
"Enough," he says. "More than enough. But that's a separate conversation." He taps the table lightly once. "This conversation is about you. Your choice. What you want."
I take a long sip of chai, hoping the spices will settle me. They don't. If anything, the warmth in my chest grows heavier.
"I thought I was protecting myself by keeping distance," I admit. "By pretending this could just be casual or temporary." I shake my head. "But I was wrong."
His jaw tics, a small movement I catch only because I've been staring at him too much lately. "Tell me how."
"Because none of this feels temporary anymore." My fingers curl around the cup. "I've been imagining the worst things they could say about me. About you and us. And even if every rumor were true, even if they're all outside right now whispering your name like it's some kind of scandal…"
I meet his eyes again.
"I'd still choose you."
Something shifts in his expression. It's subtle, but it hits me like a warm hand closing around mine. The steady part of him softens just a little, and it makes my stomach flip.
"For a long time," I say, "I thought wanting someone made me stupid. That needing anything from anyone made me weak. But when you look at me… I don't feel weak. I feel like maybe I've been measuring the wrong things."
He doesn't speak. He just watches me like he's letting every word sink somewhere deeper than his ears.
"And I'm tired, Gabe." My voice drops. "I'm tired of letting people who don't even know me decide what kind of life I'm allowed to have. I'm tired of feeling wrong for wanting something good."
He exhales slowly, and there's a quiet pride in the way he looks at me now. Not smug. Not victorious. Just someone relieved to finally hear something he'd been hoping for.
"I'm not asking you to pick me because it's easy," he says. "I'm asking you to pick the life that feels real to you."
"I know," I whisper.
He waits patiently, with a small smile on his face, like he's giving me space to step over some invisible threshold. I lean in before I even realize I've moved. My palms press against the table. My heart thuds hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
I close the small distance between us and kiss him. He sighs and holds my chin as I inhale the comfort of being this close to him. When we finally break apart, he moves a thumb over my cheek, smiling quietly. "Okay, now we get to work."
He waits for me to settle before sliding his phone to the center of the table. "I found something," he says. "A lot of somethings."
My stomach tightens. "Okay… how bad?"
He reaches into his jacket and takes out a small notepad. Real paper. Spiral-bound. I blink. "You carry that around?"
"I didn't have time to organize it," he says. "So I wrote it down."
He flips it open and turns it toward me. The first page is a list of names—maybe ten, maybe twelve. Some are circled. Some have question marks. One is written twice.
"Who are these?" I ask quietly.
"Every woman he's ghosted," Gabe says. "Every woman he talked to while he was ‘exclusive' with someone else. A few of them probably think he's the one who got away. A few don't care. And two flat-out hate him."
I look at the list again. "You found all this in one night?"
He nods. "He leaves everything lying around. His dating profiles, his old emails, the recycled passwords. And then there are the things he didn't try to hide at all."
My hand curls around my cup. "Like what?"
He swipes on his phone, then shows me a screen filled with messages—Tom messaging a girl who is definitely still in high school.
My stomach drops. "Gabe…"
"It gets worse," he says. "He searched you, your dad, your ex, and the school’s directory. He paid for a background check on you. He looked up addresses, employer histories, all of it. He tried to track down your emergency contacts."
A slow wave of dizziness moves through me.
"He did this while we were talking?" I ask.
"He did it in the last eight weeks." Gabe's voice is quiet and stern. "He knew where you lived before you ever told him. He used his work login for half of it. He used his personal card for the rest. He's incredibly stupid, or he thinks you're too scared to do anything about it."
My throat tightens, but not the way it did last night. This is different. This is the kind of anger that has weight to it.
"What do we do?" I ask.
Gabe leans back. "Depends. Do you want him scared, or ruined?"
I blink at him. "Gabe."
He lifts his notepad again and flips to a fresh page. "People like Tom think fear is currency. They think if they control the story, they control you. So either we take the story back, or we put something bigger in front of him."
I rub my thumb along the edge of my cup. "I want him to stop. I want him out of my life. And I want him away from my kid."
"Then we'll do that," he says. "But I'm not sending a warning. He won't listen to warnings."
"So, what's the plan?"
Gabe taps the paper. "Two of the women on this list want to talk. They didn't give details yet, but one said she'd be ‘happy to help if it involved shutting him up.' Her words."
My eyebrows rise. "You talked to them?"
"I sent a polite message," he says, shrugging. "I know how to ask questions without sounding like a creep."
"So… what exactly are we doing?"
"We're setting him up," Gabe says simply. "You won't have to see him. You won't talk to him again. But he's going to walk himself off his own cliff."
"That's vague."
"It has to be until I finish checking a few things. But it involves him thinking he has an upper hand. Men like him always walk toward the bait if you make them think they're the ones holding it."
I lean back. "You're scaring me a little."
"You shouldn't be," he says. "I don't lose sleep over people like him."
I look at the list again. All these names. All these women. And then me.
"You really did all this for me?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
He watches me for a long moment. "I told you. You're not alone in this."
My throat feels tight for a new reason now. Something warm. Something steady. I run a finger down the list.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Nothing for now," he says. "I'll handle the rest. I just wanted you to know what we're working with."
But he waits. Like he knows I have something else swirling in my head.
I close the notepad and slide it back to him. "I have an idea. It might be stupid."
"That's usually how the best ideas start."
I take a slow breath. "If I can get Tom alone, I can get him talking. And he talks a lot, especially when he's cornered and has nowhere to run to. So I'm thinking we set him up in style."
Gabe raises an eyebrow. "You're thinking of using dinner."
He's quick to catch on. "Yes."
"You want to meet him again? Do you trust him enough to do that?"
"No," I admit. "But he likes the sound of his own voice. I can pull it out."
Gabe studies me for a long moment. "You're sure?"
"I'm tired of everyone thinking they get to decide who I am," I say. "Tonight, I get to choose the terms."
His jaw tics once. "If you call him, I'm sitting in the parking lot."
My lips twitch. "Fine."
"Text me the time."
"I will."
We sit there in a quiet that doesn't feel heavy anymore. It feels like planning. Like control shifting back into my hands.
When I stand to leave, he gently reaches for my wrist.
"You tell me the second you're uncomfortable. I don't care if it's mid-sentence. I'll walk in."
"I know."
He holds my gaze for a moment, something warm flickering there, then lets go. We stay a moment longer before heading out. Later that night, once Jace is fed and in his pajamas, I step into the hallway with my phone.
Tom answers on the second ring.
"Lena," he says in that too-smooth voice. "Hey. Everything okay?"
"Actually, yeah," I say. "I was thinking… if you're still free tonight, maybe we could get that dinner you mentioned. There's a new place downtown. White tablecloths. Good wine list."
He perks up instantly. "Yeah? Tonight works for me. Seven?"
"Seven is fine."
"I'll pick you up—"
"No," I cut in gently. "I'll meet you there."
He hesitates for half a second, then agrees. I hang up, slide my phone into my pocket, and exhale. Game on.