His response takes longer this time:All valid feelings. And for what it's worth, I'm confused too. But I meant what I said this morning. We'll figure it out.
Solange is watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "You're smiling."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are. Small smile, but definitely there." She collects our plates, carries them to the sink. "That's good, Lana. You should smile more. You've earned the right to feel something other than fear."
Have I? Earned the right to happiness or hope or whatever this feeling is when Jax texts asking how I'm actually doing?
My phone buzzes again:Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be intense once Mira communicates with Ezra's team.
I respond:You too. And Jax? Thank you. For finding the leverage we needed.
That's what protection looks like. Finding ways to keep you safe before threats become crises.
I set down my phone and help Solange with dishes, falling into the comfortable rhythm of washing and drying. The domesticity of it helps center me after a day that's swung between psychological warfare and unexpected kissing and legal leverage that might actually save me.
By 9:30 PM, we're settled back on her couch with the second bottle of wine and a documentary neither of us is actually watching.
"Stay over," Solange says, glancing at the bag I brought. "That's why you packed it, right? You shouldn't go home alone tonight."
She's right. That was the plan when I left my apartment—confess everything to Solange, stay in her guest room, avoid going back to the cameras and the weight of what happened this morning.
But something shifted during dinner. During the conversation about Ezra's bluff, about having leverage, about what’s happening between Jax and I.
"I should go home," I say. "Face the cameras. Prove to myself I can live with being watched when the watching comes with transparency."
Solange studies me for a long moment. "You packed a bag specifically to avoid going home. Now you're choosing to go back anyway. What changed?"
"I thought I needed distance from the surveillance. Turns out what I actually need is to stop running from choices I've already made." I stand, collecting my things. "Besides, someone is watching those cameras. If I don't go home, he'll worry."
"'He'll worry,'" Solange repeats with a slight smile. "You're really doing this. Choosing him despite all the complications."
"I'm not choosing him. We agreed to wait until—"
"You're choosing him," she interrupts gently. "Maybe not acting on it yet, but the choice is already made. I can see it in your face when you read his texts. The way you trust him even though trusting men who surveil you is exactly what got you trapped before." She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "I'm not saying it's wrong. I'm saying be honest about what you're doing."
She's right. The choice is already made, and has been made since the moment I looked into that Camera at The Dominion three weeks ago and knew someone was watching. Since I negotiated surveillance terms instead of rejecting monitoring entirely. Since I kissed him this morning and didn't pull away.
I'm choosing Jax despite—or maybe because of—the complications.
"Okay," I admit. "I'm choosing him. Terrified, confused, aware it might be catastrophic judgment. But choosing him anyway."
"Then choose consciously. With eyes open. Knowing the risks." She squeezes my hand again before releasing it. "And promise me you'll keep checking in. That you won't disappear into this the way you disappeared into Gabriel."
"I promise."
I leave Solange's apartment at 10:47 PM with half a bottle of wine and the weight of admissions that feel both liberating and terrifying. The subway ride back to The Margin takes twenty-three minutes, and I spend them thinking about choicesand consequences and whether choosing connection despite risk is bravery or just another form of self-destruction.
My building appears through late-night streets that feel less threatening than they did a week ago. Someone is watching. Someone knows I'm walking home. Someone would notice if I didn't arrive safely.
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
I climb three flights of stairs, unlock my door with keys that don't shake this time, step into my apartment that no longer feels as empty as it did this morning.
The cameras are watching. I'm aware of them now in ways I wasn't before—the entrance feed capturing me coming through the door, the living room angle that shows me setting down my bag, the kitchen camera that would catch me if I made tea I don't actually want.
I pull out my phone, open the camera app, look at the feeds showing my own apartment from six different angles. I could disable them. Could shut off every camera, reclaim privacy Jax offered me control over.
