2. Physical danger only. Psychological attacks are not emergencies.
3. Let her fight her own battles. She's stronger than you think.
4. If you feel the urge to intervene, text me first. I'll talk you down.
5. After the lunch, debrief with me before you debrief with her. External accountability before emotional processing.
I photograph the list, set it as my phone's lock screen. Visual reminder every time I check my phone tomorrow. Reinforcement of boundaries I'll be tempted to cross.
Sleep comes eventually. I dream about cameras and courtrooms and Lana standing in front of Ezra Pope while I watch from behind glass, unable to reach her, unable to help, forced to witness rather than defend. In the dream, she looks at me through the glass and mouths:This is what protection looks like.
I wake at 5:47 AM with those words still echoing.This is what protection looks like.Distance. Documentation. Letting someone fight their own battles while providing infrastructure for safety but not intervening in psychological warfare.
It's the hardest form of protection. Also the most necessary.
I spend the morning preparing. I review Ezra's background one more time. Confirm the recording system is functioning properly—the receiving end is operational, ready for when Lana activates the necklace before lunch. Pack the equipment I might need: backup phone, portable charger, notes on Ezra's likely tactics.
At 11:30 AM, I text Lana:How did the attorney meeting go?
Her response comes fifteen minutes later:Better than expected. Mira Keaton is fierce. She thinks we have a strong case if Ezra tries formal proceedings.
Good. And you're ready for lunch?
As ready as I can be. Wearing the necklace. Solange is meeting me there in twenty minutes.
I'll be there at 12:45. Table near the back, clear sightlines. Remember—stay calm, stay honest, let him reveal his intentions.
Her response is a single emoji: the flexed bicep. Strength. Determination. Humor despite fear.
I arrive at Marconi's at exactly 12:45 PM. The restaurant is everything Gabriel's family would choose—old money aesthetics, expensive minimalism, the kind of place where power is shown through understatement. I take a table near the back wall with a clear view of the entrance and the section where Ezra will likely seat himself.
Solange arrives at 12:53 PM. I recognize her immediately—I've seen her in enough photos with Lana over the years. Foundation events, college throwbacks on social media, candid shots at charity galas. Mid-thirties, professional but approachable, the kind of person who belongs in foundation offices and hostile negotiations equally. She takes a table diagonal to mine, orders coffee, pulls out her laptop like she's here to work.
We're positioned now. Triangulated coverage. Neither of us acknowledging the other, both of us watching.
At 12:58 PM, Lana walks through the entrance.
She's wearing gray slacks and a navy blouse, hair pulled back, the necklace visible at her throat. Professional armor. Performance of composure. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands grip her bag slightly too tight.
She's terrified. And she's here anyway.
That's courage. Not absence of fear, but action despite it.
At 1:02 PM, Ezra Pope arrives.
CHAPTER 10: LANA
Ezra Pope enters Marconi's like he owns every polished surface, every whispered conversation, every molecule of expensive air. He's wearing charcoal gray—a suit that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent—and his smile is Gabriel's smile. Same strong jaw, same calculated warmth, same eyes that assess your value before deciding whether you're worth the effort of charm.
My stomach clenches, but I keep my face neutral. Performance mode engaged. The widow meeting her deceased husband's brother for a civilized lunch. Nothing threatening here. Nothing that requires the recording device currently pressed against my collarbone, its weight a constant reminder that everything I say will be documented, analyzed, and used.
I stand as he approaches. Manners Gabriel drilled into me over five years: always stand when someone arrives, always offer the appropriate greeting, always make the man feel respected even when he's about to destroy you.
"Lana." Ezra's voice carries that same honey-over-poison quality Gabriel perfected. He takes my hand, holds it a fraction too long, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that could be sympathy or assessment. "You look well. Better than I expected, given everything."
Given everything. Translation: given that you killed my brother five months ago and inherited his fortune.
"Thank you for meeting me." I extract my hand with practiced ease, gesture toward the table. "Shall we sit?"
