Chapter 24 Lena
LENA
I stand near the entrance of the restaurant, pretending to study the wine list even though my stomach is a tight knot.
The place is busy, polished, loud enough that conversations blur but quiet enough that every head turns when someone new walks in.
The lighting is warm. The tables are spaced closely.
It's the kind of place where gossip sits in the corner like an extra guest.
Perfect.
At the long table beside the windows, the women Gabe contacted sit in a loose semicircle. Some brought their friends. Some look angry enough to flip the table. Some look like they came here only for closure but are now enjoying the idea of something far better.
I spot Mia first. Pretty, tiny, bob haircut, jaw set like she's ready for war. She waves me over.
"You sure you want to be here when this blows?" she asks, sliding her purse onto the floor.
"Yes," I say. "I'm done hiding from him."
"Good," she mutters. "Because I've got a speech prepared."
Another girl leans forward. "I brought screenshots." She taps her phone. "Many, many screenshots."
A woman on the far side lifts her glass. "I'm here because he told me he wanted a future with me, then disappeared the day after he slept with me."
"That happened to me too," someone else says.
"And me."
"And me."
I settle into the empty chair among them, my pulse steady now. There's something powerful about being surrounded by people who know exactly who the villain in the story is.
"He's late," Mia says, checking her watch. "I swear, if he tries to bail—"
"He won't." I take a breath. "Gabe said he'd make sure."
Right on cue, the door swings open.
Tom steps in like he's the star of something, same smirk, same swagger that crumbles fast the second he spots the group of us. His eyes flick over the table. His smile disappears. He stops walking.
He turns.
Gabe is behind him.
Gabe places a slow, steady hand on his shoulder and leans in just enough to speak. I can't hear the words, but whatever he says is short and ends with Tom's shoulders dropping like lead. He tries a small laugh, something weak, something nervous.
Gabe doesn't laugh back.
He nudges him toward us. Not roughly. Just firmly. Tom stumbles in that direction like a man headed for a firing squad.
"Oh, look," Mia says loudly. "Prince Charming has arrived."
Laughter breaks across the table.
Tom reaches us with a shaky little wave. "Lena… hi. This is… a lot of people."
I fold my hands on the table. "Sit."
He sits.
Every woman leans in a little.
One of them clears her throat. "So. Before we begin, can you tell us which one of us is the ‘special connection' you told each of us we were? Because apparently, we all won that prize."
Tom's eyes widen. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."
Another girl cuts in. "Oh, sweetheart. Don't lie. You sent me the same messages you sent her." She points to the woman beside her. "And her." She points again. "And her mother."
"I never messaged—"
"She's right here, genius," Mia snaps.
A woman in her forties lifts her wine glass. "Hi."
Tom looks pale.
I sit back and watch him squirm. It's petty. It's delicious. A mix of both.
One woman flips open a folder. "I printed everything," she says. "Even the love poem you sent me. The one you copied from Google."
Someone snorts.
Mia holds up her phone. "I brought the one where he said he wanted to marry me. You remember this, Tom? You said you loved how smart and mature I was. You said you respected me. You said I was your soulmate."
Tom swallows. "We were just… I didn't mean—"
"And then you disappeared for six days," Mia says. "Six. And when you came back, you pretended nothing happened."
The forty-something woman tilts her head. "He ghosted me for my birthday. Do you know how low that bar is? My ex-husband remembered my birthday and he once forgot our anniversary."
Half the table claps.
Tom tries to stand. "I think we should take this outside—"
Gabe appears behind him again like he teleported. "Sit down."
Tom sits so fast his chair squeaks.
Now every eye is on Gabe. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't posture, just places both hands on the back of Tom's chair.
"I'll make this simple," Gabe says. "These women have enough material to bury you socially for the next five years. I have enough to bury you legally for longer."
Tom's throat clicks. "I—I didn't do anything illegal."
Gabe lifts one brow. "You ran a paid background check on a woman without her consent. You accessed her school directory using work credentials. You contacted a minor. You sent her DMs."
Tom turns even paler. "That's not— I didn't—"
"You followed her online," Gabe continues. "Tracked her father. Tracked her ex. Tracked the school. Stored the information. Do you want me to keep going?"
A girl at the end of the table lifts her hand. "He sent me a picture of a hotel room key and told me to ‘be grown.' I was seventeen at the time."
Tom almost faints.
Another girl adds, "He told me he was single. Even though he was dating her." She gestures to a woman two seats away.
That woman raises her drink. "Sup."
Tom lifts both hands in some desperate surrender. "Okay, okay, can we just—can we calm down?"
"No," Mia says flatly. "We've been calm for long enough."
The forty-something woman taps her glass. "Now we talk punishment."
Tom squeaks. "Punishment?"
"Oh, yes," she says. "You don't get to harass single mothers and teenagers and walk away with a shrug."
"This isn't a courtroom," he mutters.
"Lucky for you," Mia says. "Because if it were, you'd be doing community service till retirement."
Someone else nods. "And therapy. Lots of therapy."
Another voice. "Maybe a vow of silence."
"Or celibacy."
"Voluntary exile."
Gabe steps in before the suggestions get any wilder.
"You're going to leave Lena alone," he says. "You're going to delete her number, delete her photos, delete every message thread. You're going to stop talking about her. You're going to stop implying that you have anything to hold over her."
Tom nods so fast his hair flops.
"You're also going to apologize," Gabe adds.
Tom turns to me like a man begging for water in a desert. "Lena, I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to scare you. I was upset and—"
"That's enough," I say. "I heard what I needed."
He looks around the table, at all the faces of the women he used and discarded, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks small. Not smug. Not charming. Just small.
"I won't bother you again," he whispers.
"Good," Gabe says. "Get up."
Tom jumps to his feet and hurries out of the restaurant like someone lit a fire under him.
The moment the door closes, the entire table erupts—laughter, cheers, a few muttered curses, a toast someone starts but can't finish because she's laughing too hard.
I sit back in my chair and take a breath that doesn't feel tight for the first time in weeks.
Mia grins at me. "So. That felt good."
"It did," I admit.
Gabe meets my eye from across the room.
Something warm sparks in my chest.
Mia leans back in her chair, satisfied like she just finished a group project where everyone miraculously did their part. "We should do this more often," she says. "Like a monthly support group for women recovering from idiots."
"She can host," a girl adds, nodding at me. "She has the face of someone who bakes muffins and also ruins men."
The table breaks again. I hide my smile behind my water glass. It's been a long time since I sat with a group of women and felt… included.
Our server arrives with menus. She glances at the crowd, at the empty chair where Tom sat, at Gabe still standing with his hand on the chair back like he's guarding the space. She raises one brow.
"Interesting night?"
Mia points at the door. "We performed a public service."
The server nods like this is not the strangest thing she's heard today. "Excellent. Drinks?"
Orders roll around the table. Wine. Lemonade. A few cocktails. I stick to iced tea because my head is still buzzing from everything that just happened.
Gabe doesn't sit. He hovers behind my chair until a space opens beside me and someone shifts over to make room. He slides into the seat like it belongs to him. His knee brushes mine under the table, warm and steady.
Someone at the far end lifts her glass. "To Lena for bringing us together."
"No," another woman says, pointing at Gabe. "To him, for collecting all our numbers like Pokémon."
More laughter. Gabe shakes his head. "I didn't collect anything. You contacted me back."
"You included bullet points," Mia says. "That was impressive."
Gabe shrugs. "I'm thorough."
I study him while everyone talks. He isn't basking in it. He isn't trying to command the table. He just sits there, letting the noise wash over him, letting the gratitude fall around him like he doesn't need it but accepts it anyway.
The server brings bread. A few women start swapping screenshots like trading cards. Someone shows proof Tom reused the same compliment on four of them. Another discovers he sent her mother a recipe once. A whole debate starts over whether that's worse than ghosting on a birthday.
The energy shifts from anger to relief. The kind of relief that settles in after you realize you weren't crazy. Someone was actually manipulating you, and you weren't alone.
I relax in my seat. My shoulders drop. My breathing evens. And for the first time in a long while, I'm not worrying about how this will look or who will twist it later. The people here know the same truth I do.
Dinner stretches into dessert. Gabe orders something chocolate and quietly pushes half of it toward me. I poke at it with my spoon.
"You okay?" he asks under the noise.
"Yeah." I let out a slow breath. "Better than okay."
His eyes soften. His knee presses mine again.
When the bill comes, the women insist on splitting it. Someone jokes about sending Tom a Venmo request for the entire dinner. A vote is taken. Fourteen hands rise. That settles it. Someone drafts the request and hits send.
We walk out together in a loose pack. A few of them hug me, quick and warm. A couple of them exchange numbers with each other like newfound battle buddies. Mia squeezes my arm. "If he ever even breathes in your direction again, call me."
"I will," I promise.
She nods once and heads to her car.
Gabe walks me to mine. He holds the door while I slide into the driver's seat. For a second, he leans down, hand on the roof, eyes on me.
"You did well tonight," he murmurs.
"So did you."
He closes the door gently like he's handling something fragile. "Gabe?" I call out.
"Yeah?"
"Come home with me?" I ask. "We can make hot chocolate and watch what Jace wants."
He chuckles and climbs in beside me. "I was hoping you'd say that."
I'm smiling the whole drive, and the warmth continues when we go inside the house and smell cocoa and cinnamon, which means Jace's sitter has already made the hot chocolate. Jace's giggle reaches me from the living room before I even take off my shoes.
He's on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, sitting beside our sitter, Nora, who is young, patient, and probably too nice for this world. She lifts her mug in greeting.
"We made hot chocolate," she says. "He wanted marshmallows."
Jace waves at me. "Mama, look! It has sprinkles too."
I smile. "It sounds perfect."
I sit beside them and take the mug Nora hands me.
Gabe takes his next. The chocolate is still warm.
The sight of Jace's sticky mouth untangles whatever tension was left in me.
Normally, this would be the part where the night ends.
Clean up. Pay Nora. Put Jace to bed. Pretend the world outside this house doesn't exist.
But tonight, my mind won't settle.
I keep replaying the dinner. The laughter. The moment Tom's face drained. The look Gabe gave me across the table when everything fell into place. Something is shifting under my feet, something steady and strong. I sip the cocoa to hide the flush creeping up my neck.
Nora glances at the clock. "Do you need anything else before I head out?"
"No, thank you." I reach for my purse. "Let me grab your payment."
After I've paid Nora and Jace has kissed her goodnight, Gabe reads him a bedtime story and puts him to bed. He then comes down to the living room. We make another round of hot chocolate, spiked this time, and sit on the couch, drinking it. The bell rings.
I stand, wiping my hands on a dish towel, and cross to the door. I'm still thinking it might be a delivery or a neighbor when I unlock it and pull it open.
My father stands on the porch.
I freeze.
His gaze flicks over my shoulder, into the house, and lands on the person sitting on my couch.
Gabe, with the mug of hot chocolate in his hand. My father blinks once, slowly, like he's trying to make sense of the scene.
Then his eyes shift back to me.
"Lena," he says. "I came to talk."
He pauses and looks at Gabe again. His brows jump, then pull down hard, like his face can't decide which expression to settle on. "Gabe?" he asks, voice confused. "What are you doing here?"