Eighteen months later
I'm standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows of our apartment—not Gabriel's apartment, not a safe house, but the home Jax and I built together—watching morning light paint the city in shades of amber and gold.
Eighteen months have passed since the last Glasshouse operative was sentenced to federal prison. Eighteen months since that final conviction closed the chapter on the organization that nearly killed me. Over two years since Gabriel died on that storm-swept terrace.
The ocean is visible in the distance, waves moving in their eternal rhythm against the shore, and for the first time since that night, the sight doesn't make me think of Gabriel falling, of my hands failing to hold on, of the terrible relief underneath horror.
Now I just see the ocean. Beautiful and indifferent and eternal.
Behind me, I hear Jax moving through the apartment with the practiced efficiency of someone who knows exactly where everything belongs. Coffee brewing in the kitchen. The rustle of papers as he reviews contracts for his security consulting firm. The small sounds of domestic life that once would have made me hypervigilant but now just make me feel safe.
We've been living this life for over a year now—the one we fought for through confession and federal investigation and six weeks of protective custody. The one we built from the wreckage of surveillance obsession, an abusive marriage, and nearly getting killed.
The foundation event last year was a turning point I didn't fully appreciate until months later. Standing on that stage in front of donors and board members and media, announcing expansion to two new cities, sharing carefully edited pieces of my story that let people understand why this work mattered without revealing the full horror of what Gabriel put me through—it felt like stepping into a version of myself I'd been building toward since the night he died.
Jax was in the front row, right side, exactly where he promised he'd be. Solange sat beside him, then Elias and Mara - all of them exactly where I needed them. I found their faces whenever the speech felt overwhelming, used their steady presence as an anchor while I talked about transformation and purpose and turning tragedy into other people's freedom. I realized I wasn't alone anymore. I had people who showed up, who stayed, who helped me build instead of tearing me down.
The expansion has been more successful than we projected. Three cities now—Miramont, Portland, and Austin—with plans to add two more next year. We've helped over two hundred women escape controlling relationships, provided legal aid and emergency relocation funds and the kind of support I wish I'd had when Gabriel was alive. Every application Solange and I review, every woman we help, feels like another small victory over the man who tried to make me into something I wasn't.
Gabriel's money, transformed into other people's freedom. His legacy, rewritten by the woman he underestimated.
Dr. Cross says I've processed his death as fully as anyone can. I know now that I didn't kill him—that his foot slipped, that I tried to hold on, that physics and rain and momentum made saving him impossible. I know the relief I felt doesn't make me amonster, just human. I know that complex emotions can coexist—horror and relief, grief and freedom, guilt and vindication—without one cancelling out the others.
Some nights I still dream about that terrace, about the storm and his hands on my shoulders and the moment everything changed. But the dreams don't haunt me anymore. They're just memories, processed and integrated and no longer holding power over my present.
"Coffee's ready," Jax calls from the kitchen, and I turn from the window to find him watching me with the kind of attention that used to feel like surveillance but now just feels like love.
He's different too. Still hypervigilant, still managing impulses that will never fully disappear, but transformed through the ongoing work of choosing differently. His security consulting firm is thriving—eighteen permanent clients now, all of them companies and organizations that want protection without privacy violations. He's building a reputation as someone who understands surveillance intimately.
We both see Dr. Cross regularly, sometimes individually and sometimes together. The therapy is maintenance now rather than crisis intervention, the kind of ongoing work that keeps obsessive patterns from resurging in destructive ways. Jax still wants to monitor and control, still feels the pull toward surveillance as a coping mechanism. But he recognizes those urges, sits with the discomfort, and chooses trust instead.
That's what sustainable recovery looks like. The patterns don't disappear, but you learn to redirect them toward something that doesn't destroy the people you love.
I cross to the kitchen where he's already poured coffee into the mugs we bought together last month—simple ceramicin colors we both liked, chosen jointly like everything else in this apartment. He hands me mine, kisses me with the easy familiarity of someone who's earned the right to this intimacy as a daily choice.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, because he can read my expressions now, and knows when I'm processing something deeper than just morning routines.
"How far we've come," I tell him honestly. "Around two years ago I was living in Gabriel's house, convinced I'd never feel safe again. Now I'm here with you, running a foundation that's actually changing lives, building something real instead of just surviving."
"We've both come far." He sets down his coffee mug, pulls me closer. "Close to two years ago I was watching you through cameras, convinced obsessive monitoring was the only way to prevent loss. Now I'm here building a business that protects people without violating them, choosing vulnerability over control, trusting that love means being present rather than watching."
This is what we do—remind each other how much work we've put in, acknowledge the transformation that came through the hardest possible route. We don't pretend the past didn't happen. We just refuse to let it define our future.
"Elias called yesterday," Jax continues, and there's something in his tone that suggests this conversation matters. "He and Mara want to take us to dinner Friday night. They have something they want to discuss."
"About what?"
"He wouldn't say. Just that it's important and he'd rather talk in person." Jax's expression shifts into something that might be concern or curiosity. "My guess is they're thinkingabout expanding their own consulting work and maybe want to explore partnership possibilities."
That would make sense. Elias and Jax have been coordinating on clients for months now, referring work to each other when projects require expertise outside their individual specializations. A formal partnership would just codify what they're already doing informally.
"Or maybe they just want to have dinner with friends," I suggest, because sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. "We haven't seen them in a few weeks. People do that, you know. Have dinner without ulterior motives."
He smiles at that, acknowledging my point. "Fair enough. Either way, you're free Friday?"
"I'm free." The foundation work is manageable now that we have staff in all three cities, now that Solange and I have built systems that don't require my constant attention. I still oversee major decisions and review applications that need executive approval, but I'm not drowning in operational details anymore. "Should I tell Solange we're having dinner with them Friday?"
"If you want. She and Mara have gotten close since the expansion started. Might be good for all of us to catch up."
