I force myself up from the couch, needing movement to burn off the restless energy coursing through me. The kitchen still smells like Thai food from yesterday, evidence of care disguised as tactical support. I open the window above the sink, letting October air cut through the warmth, grounding myself in temperature and sensation instead of memory.
My reflection catches in the window glass. The woman looking back appears more present than she has in months—there’s color in her cheeks, her eyes are focused instead of distant, and her mouth is curved into something that might be the beginning of a smile. She looks like someone who just got kissed by a man who's been watching her for weeks. Someone who kissed him back without hesitation.
Someone who might be making the same mistakes that destroyed her the first time.
The thought arrives like cold water. Gabriel watched me too. Monitored my movements, tracked my phone, installed cameras throughout our house. Said it was because he loved me, because he wanted me safe, because caring meant knowing where I was at all times.
Jax does all those things. He has cameras in my apartment right now, monitoring feeds I can access but he can access it too without me knowing exactly when he does. Tracks my location through my phone. Knows my patterns well enough to predict when I deviate from routine.
The methodology is identical. The justification differs. But does justification actually change the dynamic, or does it just make surveillance more palatable?
My phone buzzes. Text from Solange:How did it go with Mira? And more importantly, are you okay after yesterday?
I stare at the message, calculating what to tell her. The truth would require admitting that my attorney meeting went well but I'm spiralling because I kissed the man who's been silently watching me for three weeks and neither of us regrets it even though we absolutely should.
That conversation requires more honesty than text allows.
I type back:Mira's optimistic about our legal position. Can we talk later? Maybe dinner?
Her response comes quickly:Yes. My place, 7 PM. I'll cook. You bring wine and whatever's making you deflect.
I almost laugh. Solange knows me too well. Six years of friendship—longer than my marriage to Gabriel—means she reads evasion in my punctuation.
Deal,I send back.
That gives me seven hours to process everything before I have to articulate it out loud to someone who'll tell me the truth even when the truth hurts.
I spend the afternoon doing things that feel productive but serve mainly as distraction. I review grant applications for the foundation even though I can't focus on the words. Answer emails with responses that probably make sense but definitely lack the attention they deserve. Organize my closet even though organization won't solve any actual problems.
By 3 PM, I've checked off tasks without addressing what actually needs dealing with. I’ve used productivity as avoidance.
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number, but I recognize it now—Malcolm Fielding's office.
The text reads:Ms. Pope, please call at your earliest convenience. Sarah Chen has questions about estate documentation before next week's deadline.
Next week's deadline. Ezra's ultimatum. Accept his settlement or face formal proceedings.
I don't call back. Mira told me to route all estate communication through her office, that responding directly gives Malcolm and his new firm opportunities to twist my words. So I forward the text to Mira with a note:They're pushing. What should I do?
Her response arrives within minutes:Ignore. Let them sweat. We're not responding to pressure tactics.
The confidence in her words helps fractionally. Mira Keaton doesn't back down from fights, doesn't negotiate from fear. She's exactly what I need—a lawyer who treats legal warfare as opportunity rather than threat.
But underneath Mira's confidence, the reality remains: one week until Ezra forces a decision. One week to prepare for the possibility that every detail of my marriage gets examined in discovery. One week before my carefully reconstructed life either stabilizes or collapses entirely.
I pull up the camera feeds on my phone—the system Jax installed just days ago that feels like two years given everything that's happened since. Six angles of my apartment: entrance showing the empty hallway, the living room capturing the couch where we kissed, the kitchen where he stood behind me fastening the necklace I wore to Marconi's.
The cameras should feel invasive. They did feel invasive the first time I checked the feeds. But now they feel like proof that I'm not actually alone even when the apartment is empty, that someone is watching not to control but to protect.
Or maybe that's just what I'm telling myself because admitting I've normalized surveillance makes me complicit in my own monitoring.
I close the app before the spiral deepens.
By 5 PM, I've run out of productive procrastination. The apartment is clean, emails answered, and my closet organized. Nothing left to distract me from the reality that I kissed Jax this morning and spending the rest of my life not thinking about it feels impossible.
I shower, washing away the afternoon's restless energy. Change into jeans and a sweater. Pack a bag with my laptop and phone charger because staying at Solange's overnight feels safer than coming back here alone after admitting everything I've been avoiding.
At 6:47 PM, I'm standing outside Solange's building in The Hollows with two bottles of wine and the weight of confessions I'm not ready to make.
