"We were on the terrace," I start, and my voice sounds distant even to my own ears. "It was storming. He was drunk, furious, interrogating me about where I'd been spending my afternoons."
Jax doesn't interrupt, just waits with the patience of someone who understands trauma memories don't come out in neat linear narratives.
"He kept backing me toward the railing, demanding I apologize for disrespecting him. Then he grabbed my shoulders, started shaking me violently, spinning us both around in his rage." My hands are shaking now, coffee mug trembling enough that I have to set it down before I spill everywhere. "My hands were on his chest—trying to push him away, trying to get free of his grip. And then his foot slipped on the wet stone."
"Then he fell," Jax says carefully, giving me space to continue.
"His weight shifted backward. The momentum was already carrying him toward the drop. My hands were still on his chest, but suddenly they were the only thing between him and falling." The memory is crystal clear now, sharp-edged and terrible. "I tried to hold on. I did. But he was too heavy, and the rain made everything slick and he just slid through my grip. I watched him go over the railing and I couldn't stop it, couldn't save him, and underneath all the horror and guilt, I felt—"
"Relief," Jax finishes when I can't.
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Relief that he was gone. That I'd never have to endure his control again. That I survived him. And that relief has been eating me alive for sixmonths, making me think I must have wanted him dead even though I tried to hold on."
"Lana." Jax crosses to where I'm standing, frames my face with hands that are infinitely gentle. "You didn't kill him. You defended yourself, and then you tried to save him when he fell. The fact that you felt relief afterward doesn't make you a monster. It makes you human."
"Dr. Cross said something similar when I told her about the memory yesterday." I lean into his touch, letting him ground me in the present instead of drowning in the past. "But I've been carrying six months of guilt over a death I didn't cause, and now I have to reconcile that with the relief I felt, and it's—"
"A lot," he says simply. "Which is why therapy before federal testimony is the right call. You need to process this for yourself before you have to explain it to investigators who are looking for criminal liability rather than psychological truth."
I nod, accepting that he's right even though the prospect of sitting in Dr. Cross's office and unpacking all of this feels overwhelming. "Will you come with me? To the session?"
"If you want me there, yes." No hesitation, no questioning whether that's appropriate. Just immediate agreement to show up however I need him.
"I want you there." I pull him closer and rest my forehead against his chest. "I don't want to process this alone anymore. I've been alone with it for too long already."
His arms come around me, holding me while I fragment slightly at the edges. This is what love looks like when it's real—not someone trying to fix you or tell you how to feel, but someone willing to sit with you in the wreckage and help you sort through the pieces.
We stand like that until my coffee gets cold and the morning light shifts across the apartment floor. Eventually I pull back, wipe my eyes, and force myself to focus on the practical steps ahead.
"Solange will be here in forty-five minutes," I say, checking the time. "We should probably be wearing more than just underwear when she arrives."
That gets a small smile from him. "Probably a good idea.”
I move toward the bedroom where boxes of clothes are waiting to be unpacked. "Though knowing Solange, she'd just make some comment about me finally living my life."
By the time Solange arrives, we're both dressed and marginally more prepared to discuss federal investigations over coffee in an apartment that still looks like a moving truck exploded inside it. She comes bearing a laptop bag and the kind of focused intensity that suggests she's been up all-night organizing files.
"This is everything," she says, setting up her laptop on the kitchen counter and pulling up a complex file structure. "Financial transactions organized by date and recipient. Communications between Gabriel and known Glasshouse operatives. Blackmail material categorized by target. Shell corporation documents showing how money moved through offshore accounts. And the big one—a complete organizational chart showing everyone from street-level operatives to political connections at the state and federal level."
Jax leans over her shoulder, scanning the information with professional assessment. "This is comprehensive. How much of it is encrypted?"
"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.
