"Alternative leadership." I repeat the phrase, making sure everyone hears how absurd it sounds. "You want me to step down because Ezra won't stop making false claims. That's what you're actually proposing."
"We're proposing you take a leave of absence. Temporary. Until this joint investment matter resolves—oneway or another." Thomas is pulling out more documents—formal motions, already drafted, just waiting for board approval. "We've prepared transition plans. Stephen can serve as interim director while you focus on resolving these personal legal matters."
Stephen Walsh, who's been on this board for three months and knows nothing about the communities we serve. Who got his position through connections rather than expertise. Who would run the foundation like a standard nonprofit instead of the targeted intervention I built from the ground up.
"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "I'm not taking a leave of absence. I'm not stepping down. And if this board votes to remove me, I'll fight that too."
"Lana, be reasonable—" Diana starts, but I cut her off.
"I am being reasonable. You're asking me to surrender leadership because someone keeps making false legal claims. That's not reasonable. That's cowardice." I'm gathering my things now, done with this performance. "If you want to vote on my removal, do it. But I won't make it easy by resigning voluntarily."
I walk out before anyone can respond, Derek falling into step beside me as I head for the elevator. My hands are shaking with rage I didn't let them see, my chest tight with the realization that I'm fighting battles on multiple fronts—Ezra coming back with false joint investment claims after dropping the estate case, The Glasshouse assessing whether I'm a threat through Wednesday's meeting, and now my own board questioning whether I'm fit to lead the organization I created.
In the car, I text Jax:Board meeting was a disaster. They want me to take leave of absence or resign. I refused.
His response comes within seconds:Where are you now?
Me:Leaving foundation. Derek is driving me back to the safe house.
Jax:I'm finishing with Brandon. I'll meet you there in thirty minutes.
I spend the drive processing anger and frustration, trying to separate reasonable concern from Thomas's obvious power play. The board has legitimate questions about organizational stability. But asking me to step down because Ezra is making threats isn't about stability—it's about optics and risk management and not wanting to fight battles that might reflect poorly on their board service.
When we reach the safe house, I dismiss Derek with thanks, let myself inside, and immediately pour a drink I probably shouldn't have at eleven AM. Jax arrives twenty minutes later, takes one look at my face and knows the meeting went worse than disaster.
"Tell me," he says, already moving toward me.
So I do. I tell him about Thomas’s documents, Diana’s concerns, the proposal for temporary leave that's obviously permanent removal disguised as consideration for my wellbeing. I tell him I refused, that I walked out, that I'm now fighting my own board along with Ezra and The Glasshouse.
"They're scared," he says when I finish. "Worried that association with you creates liability they can't manage."
"I know they're scared. I'm scared too." I down the rest of my drink, set the glass down harder than necessary. "But I'm not stepping down because fear is easier than fighting. Gabriel already took five years of my life for his comfort. The board doesn't get to take the foundation too."
He's watching me with the focused attention I recognize from surveillance, except now it feels like assessment rather than observation. "What do you need?"
The question is simple, but the answer is complicated. I need the board to support me. I need Ezra to drop his threats. I need The Glasshouse to decide I'm not worth eliminating. I need all of this to end so I can just exist without pretending to have the strength I'm not sure I possess.
But what I say is: "I need to stop feeling like everyone else controls my life. Like I'm just reacting to their decisions instead of making my own."
"Then make your own decision. Right now. Something that's entirely yours." He hasn't moved closer, just stands there giving me space.
I cross the distance between us, crash my mouth into his hard enough that our teeth click, hard enough to taste copper and fury. My tongue pushes past his lips like a demand, and he answers instantly, opening for me, letting me take. His hands rise to cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones in that maddening gentleness, but he doesn't wrestle for control. He yields. He lets me bite his lower lip, lets me suck it into my mouth and soothe the sting with my tongue, lets me set the brutal, hungry rhythm until we're both gasping.
I tear my mouth away just far enough to growl, "Bedroom. Now."
He moves immediately, letting me shove him down the hallway, my palms flat between his shoulder blades. When we step into the room, I spin him around, push once hard, and he drops to the edge of the bed, thighs spreading instinctively. I step between them, towering over him while he looks up at me with dark eyes and absolute surrender.
"Take off your shirt," I order, my voice carrying all the authority I couldn't summon in that boardroom.
He obeys without question, fingers gripping the back of the collar, dragging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric hits the floor, and I drink him in—broad chest, the scars I've traced over and over again, the rapid rise and fall that tells me he's already coming undone.
I place one palm in the center of his chest and push. He falls back onto the mattress with a soft sound, arms spread, offering himself completely. I climb up deliberately, still fully dressed, and straddle his hips. The hard line of his erection presses against my thigh through the layers between us.
I brace my hands on either side of his head and lean down until my lips brush his ear. "You don't move unless I say. You don't touch unless I allow it. Today I take what I need. You give everything. Understood?"
A tremor rolls through him. "Yes."
I reward him with a roll of my hips that drags the seam of my trousers over his trapped length. He groans, deep and broken, hips jerking upward seeking more friction. Then I shift back, climb off him entirely, and hook my fingers into the waistband of his jeans.
