I stand on legs that threaten to buckle, gather my bag, walk toward the entrance with the same measured pace I'd use if this were a normal lunch ending normally. The performance continues even though the audience has left.
At the entrance, Solange materializes beside me. She doesn't say anything, just puts a hand on my arm, a brief squeeze of solidarity. Then Jax is there, appearing from wherever he was positioned, and his eyes do a rapid assessment—checking that I'm physically intact, emotionally functional, still standing.
"Car's outside," he says, his voice carrying none of the emotion I can see in his eyes. "Let's get you home."
I want to argue. Want to prove I'm strong enough to take the subway, to walk the twelve blocks, to not need extraction like I'm some kind of casualty. But the truth is I am a casualty. Ezra just conducted a surgical strike on my composure, and I'm barely holding the pieces together.
So I follow Jax out of Marconi's, into the bright October afternoon that feels wrong—too cheerful, too normal, too unconcerned with the fact that my entire life just got threatened over untouched entrees.
The car is the same town car from Lucien's dinner. Same driver. Same leather seats that smell like money and decisions. Solange climbs in beside me, and Jax takes the front passenger seat, angled so he can see me in the rearview.
"Your apartment or the foundation office?" the driver asks.
"Apartment," Jax answers before I can. Then, catching himself: "Unless you prefer somewhere else."
The fact that he corrects himself—gives me the choice instead of making the decision—matters more than it should. "The apartment is fine."
"The drive takes eighteen minutes through afternoon traffic. Marconi's is in The Crest—Gabriel's territory, old money and older grudges. My apartment in The Margin feels like a different city entirely. I count the minutes the way I count everything now."
At my building, Jax opens the car door, offers a hand I don't take because accepting help feels like admitting defeat. I'm capable of exiting a car unassisted. I'm capable of walking up three flights of stairs. I'm capable of unlocking my own apartment door.
Except when I try to get my key in the lock, my hands shake so badly that I drop the keys twice before Jax gently takes them from me and unlocks the door himself.
"Not defeat," he says softly, like he's reading my mind. "Just adrenaline crash. Your body's processing threat response. Let it process."
Inside, my apartment looks exactly as I left it this morning—small, temporary, provisional. The couch where Jax and I rehearsed yesterday. The kitchen where he stood behind me while fastening the necklace. The cameras I know are watching but can't see.
Solange heads straight for my kitchen. "I'm making tea. The British solution to everything, but it works."
Jax is doing something with his phone, and I realize he's probably reviewing the recording. Listening to what just happened, analyzing Ezra's threats, building the case we'll need.
I sink onto the couch, pull my knees up, wrap my arms around them. The position Dr. Cross says means I'm protecting myself. Right now, I am. I'm protecting whatever's left after Ezra's surgical dismantling.
The necklace feels heavier now. I reach up, unfasten it with fingers that are steadier than they were, set it carefully on the coffee table. The pendant catches afternoon light through my windows, innocent-looking, betraying nothing of the evidence it holds.
"Every word," Jax says, looking up from his phone. "Clear audio. His threats. Your responses. The way he framed everything as concern while systematically threatening you." He sets down his phone. "This is good evidence, Lana. Really good. It shows his manipulation, his tactics, his admission that he's had you followed."
"It also shows me admitting I don't remember if I pushed Gabriel."
"It shows you being honest about trauma-related memory gaps. That's different from admitting culpability." He sits on the other end of the couch, maintaining distance that feels more careful than casual. "You did exactly what we prepared for. Stayed calm, didn't get defensive. Let him reveal his intentions while you documented everything."
Solange appears with three mugs of tea. She hands me one, sets another in front of Jax, keeps the third for herself. Then she settles into my second-hand chair, wraps both hands around her mug, and looks at me with the expression I've learned means she's about to say something I need to hear but won't want to.
"You were incredible," she starts. "The way you handled him—staying composed while he tried to dismantle you—that took serious strength." She pauses. "But Lana? That man is dangerous. Not physically dangerous, maybe, but dangerous in ways that are harder to defend against. He's going to make this ugly."
"I know." I sip the tea. "One week. He gave me one week to accept his 'settlement' or face public proceedings."
"Then we prepare for public proceedings," Jax says. "Because settling means admitting doubt. Admitting that his allegations have merit."
"But going to court means everything gets examined. My therapy records. The foundation. Every detail of my marriage to Gabriel." I set down the mug before I drop it. "I'm not sure I can survive that kind of scrutiny."
"You can." Solange's voice is firm. "Because you have Mira Keaton, who's vicious in estate litigation. You have documentation of Gabriel's controlling behavior. You have evidence of Ezra's manipulation tactics." She gestures at the necklace on the coffee table. "And you have people who will testify to what Gabriel was actually like, not the performance he showed the world."
"Who? His colleagues thought he was brilliant. His friends thought he was generous. His family—" I gesture vaguely toward the door, toward Marconi's, toward Ezra. "His family thinks I killed him for his money."
"I'll testify." Solange says it without hesitation. "I met Gabriel. I saw how he treated you. I watched you diminish yourself for five years trying to be what he wanted. That's evidence."
"Is it enough?"
