So I walk her through everything—the behavioral tells they watch for, the test questions they'll likely ask, the timeline pressure making Wednesday urgent. I explain about micro-expressions, about the difference between genuine confusion and performed ignorance, about how she needs to appear truly lost when they mention companies or operations Gabriel was involved with.
"So I can't just act helpless. I have to actually not understand what they're talking about." She's processing the distinction. "Which means going into that meeting without studying Gabriel's operations, without memorizing company names, without preparing answers."
"Exactly. Preparation makes you look informed. Ignorance keeps you alive." I'm showing her examples Julian provided—names of shell corporations, financial terms,operational references. "These might come up Wednesday. When they do, you look confused. You don't recognize them. You have no context for what they mean."
"But I do have context now. Solange decoded files that explain some of these connections." Her concern is valid. "How do I un-know things?"
"You don't. You compartmentalize." I'm already thinking through how to brief her without undermining Wednesday's performance. "You know Gabriel had encrypted files. You know they exist. But you didn't examine them closely, didn't understand what you were seeing. That's the truth—just framed to emphasize your ignorance rather than your investigation."
She's nodding, already adapting to the narrative adjustment. "And if they ask specific questions about Gabriel's business? About companies or operations?"
"You knew he was in venture capital. You knew he invested in various businesses. But you weren't involved in his work, didn't understand the financial details, focused on your interests instead. I'm laying out the framework Julian suggested. "You're the widow who inherited money but not business knowledge. You just want this resolved so you can move forward."
"Ignorant widow who wants her life back. I can do that." She's already shifting into the performance mindset. "What else did Julian say?"
I tell her about the timeline pressure, about Ezra's campaign deadlines forcing urgency, about why Wednesday can't be postponed or delayed. The information makes the meeting feel more imminent, more dangerous—they can't afford to wait for better intelligence, which means Wednesday's assessment is final.
"Two days," she says when I finish. "Two days to prepare for the performance that determines whether I live or die."
"Two days. But Lana, we have better intelligence now. Julian gave us specific protocols they'll use. We know what they're looking for. That's an advantage we didn't have yesterday." I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. "You can do this. You've been performing for years. One more performance to stay alive."
She manages something resembling a smile. "At least this time I know exactly what the stakes are."
We spend the next few hours reviewing strategy, practicing responses to questions they might ask, refining the narrative that frames her as non-threatening. By evening, Lana looks exhausted from preparation but more confident about Wednesday's approach.
"I need a break from tactical planning," she says, standing and stretching. "My brain is full of protocols and behavioral tells and performance strategy. Can we just... not think about Wednesday for a few hours?"
“We can absolutely do that,” I say, my voice already rough, stalking toward her with single-minded focus. “Tell me what you need, Lana.”
She doesn’t answer with words. She surges up and crashes her mouth into mine, teeth clashing, her tongue sliding hot and filthy against mine like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin. We’re moving before I register it, stumbling down the hall, hands frantic—her shirt rips over her head, mine dragged off and flung aside. Skin meets skin and the shock of it rips a growl from my chest.
I shove her through the bedroom door, spin her, walk her backward until her legs hit the bed. She falls and I follow, mouthfused to hers, swallowing the desperate little whimpers she feeds me. My fingers tear at the button of her pants; hers yank my belt loose with a metallic shriek. The air is thick with the scent of her arousal and the low, continuous sound she makes when I finally shove denim and lace down her thighs.
“God, I need this,” she gasps against my lips, nails scraping down my back. “Need you inside me, Jax. Need to forget everything else exists.”
“Then forget,” I snarl, spreading her open with my thumbs, lowering my mouth to the slick heat already pulsing for me. One slow lick from entrance to clit and her back bows off the bed, a broken cry tearing loose. She’s drenched, swollen, tasting like desperation and mine. I pin her hips and devour her— my tongue thrusting deep, then circling her clit with tight, ruthless flicks until her thighs clamp around my ears and she’s chanting my name like a prayer.
I slide two fingers inside her, curl them hard, suck her clit between my lips, and she shatters—hips bucking wildly, pussy clamping down on my fingers in wet, rhythmic pulses while my name rips from her throat in a raw scream that goes straight to my cock.
I’m already moving, ripping open the nightstand drawer, condom in my teeth before she’s finished trembling. She watches me roll it down with blown-black eyes, legs falling open wider in blatant invitation.
“Now,” she breathes, wrapping those long legs around my waist and dragging me down. “Fuck me now.”
I drive into her in one brutal thrust.
We both shout. She’s scalding, impossibly tight, gripping me so perfectly my vision tunnels. I pull back and slam home again, setting a punishing rhythm—deep, grinding strokes thatdrag over every sensitive spot inside her. The bedframe slams the wall in time with her moans, louder, and filthier with every thrust.
Her nails rake bloody lines down my back; I hiss and angle deeper, hitting that spot that makes her eyes roll back. I’m already close, balls drawn tight, when the fucking burner phone starts shrilling from the living room.
“Ignore it,” I growl against her throat, teeth scraping the pulse hammering there, hips never slowing.
She tries—God, she tries—arching into me, meeting every thrust, breath hitching higher and higher toward a second climax. The phone stops. Silence.
Then mine starts buzzing like a chainsaw.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she pants, but her cunt still flutters around me, greedy, chasing release.
Three sharp knocks hit the front door—security protocol, not emergency. Both phones explode again. The knocking continues.
