"The will specifies everything to me."
"The will was made under circumstances we're questioning. If Gabriel was planning changes—if he expressed concerns about your stability—then that will doesn't reflect his true final wishes." Ezra leans forward again. "I'm offering you a reasonable compromise, Lana. We can settle this privately. You keep a significant portion, I receive what's fair for the family, we both move on. Or we can do this publicly. Discovery. Depositions. Every detail of your marriage will be examined. Every moment of that night scrutinized. Your therapy records subpoenaed. The foundation you started with Gabriel's money investigated."
There it is. The threat wrapped in an offer. Settle privately and keep some dignity, or face public destruction.
"And if I refuse your 'reasonable compromise'?"
"Then we proceed with formal proceedings. I contest the will based on undue influence, questionable circumstances surrounding Gabriel's death, and your demonstrated instability." His tone is pleasant, conversational, as if he's discussing weather rather than threatening to destroy me. "I have investigators documenting your current behavior—theisolation, the paranoia, the way you change routes randomly, the foundation you rushed into starting. All evidence of someone not mentally fit to inherit such wealth."
The investigators. The man who followed me last week. Jax was right—they're building a file, documenting everything, constructing a narrative of instability.
"Those aren't signs of instability. They're signs of trauma recovery." I keep my voice even. "I started a foundation to help other domestic violence survivors. I change routes because I'm aware someone is following me. I'm not paranoid—I'm appropriately cautious. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Ezra sips his wine. "Because from an outside perspective, you look like a woman who killed her husband, inherited his fortune, and is now exhibiting increasingly erratic behavior. Add in the memory gaps you're conveniently claiming, and the picture becomes quite damning."
My hands are shaking slightly under the table. I press them flat against my thighs, force them to stillness. "I didn't kill Gabriel."
"You just said you don't remember what happened."
"I don't remember the exact details. But I remember enough to know I didn't plan it. Didn't want it. If I pushed him, it was because I was defending myself from a man who'd spent five years systematically destroying me." The words come out harder than I intend, louder. I force myself to lower my voice. "He was abusive, Ezra. Controlling. Monitoring. Making me afraid to breathe wrong. If I defended myself that night, it was because defending myself was the only option he left me."
"Abusive." Ezra repeats the word like it tastes bad. "Gabriel was successful, generous, and respected. He gave you everything. A beautiful home, financial security, social position.And you're rewriting history to make him a villain so you can justify inheriting his estate."
"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what our marriage actually was behind the performance we showed the world." I lean forward, let him see the anger I've been containing. "Gabriel monitored my every movement. Tracked my phone. Questioned where I went, who I talked to, why I took five minutes longer than usual coming home. He isolated me from friends, criticized everything I did, made me feel like I was failing at being human. That's not generosity. That's control. And control that extreme doesn't stop at monitoring—it escalates."
"So you're saying he deserved to die."
"I'm saying he created conditions where his death was inevitable. Whether I pushed him or he slipped or some combination—the outcome was always going to be tragic because Gabriel couldn't stop himself from taking things too far."
Ezra is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Assessing. Calculating. Finally: "That's quite a story. The abused wife defending herself from the monster husband. Very sympathetic. I'm sure a jury would find it compelling."
"It's not a story. It's what happened."
"Then you won't mind if we examine it publicly. Depositions, evidence. Witness testimony." He signals the server for the check. "Because if you're telling the truth, you have nothing to fear from investigation. And if you're lying—" He lets the implication hang.
The server appears with the check. Ezra pulls out his wallet, places a card on the small tray with the precisemovements of someone who's never questioned whether he has enough money for anything.
"Think about my offer, Lana. Private settlement, we both walk away with dignity intact. Or a public battle where every painful detail gets examined." He stands, and I'm forced to stand as well. "You have one week to decide. After that, I file formal proceedings."
One week. Seven days to decide whether to fight or surrender.
He extends his hand again. I take it because refusing would look guilty to anyone watching. His grip is firm, professional, and his thumb brushes across my knuckles again in that same gesture that could be sympathy or possession.
"I'm sorry it has to be this way," he says, and his voice carries enough false regret that anyone overhearing would think he genuinely cares. "Gabriel would be disappointed to see us at odds. But I have to protect his legacy. I hope you understand."
Then he's walking away, leaving me standing beside the table with untouched food and the weight of his ultimatum pressing against my chest like the recording device that captured every word.
I sink back into my chair because my legs won't hold me anymore. Around me, Marconi's continues its expensive normalcy. No one noticed the psychological warfare that just happened. No one saw a man systematically dismantle a woman's claim to her own life while pretending to be concerned and reasonable.
Except Jax saw. And Solange saw. And the recording device captured everything.
The thought steadies me fractionally. I'm not alone, even though I feel stripped bare and exposed.
I pull out my phone, text Solange:I'm okay. Can we leave?
Her response comes immediately:Meet you at the entrance in two minutes. You did great.
I did something. Whether it was great or adequate or enough remains to be seen.
