My hands start shaking before I finish reading. OT. Owen Trask. He's texting me now, moving from surveillance to direct contact, making sure I know he's still watching even though Jax isn't.
I screenshot the message, send it to Brandon Hayes with a note:Trask just texted me from an unknown number. Does this feel like escalation to you?
His response comes within seconds:Yes. Forward to your attorney immediately. We're adjusting threat assessment to active rather than passive. Derek will remain with you until further notice.
Mira responds first:This is harassment and potentially witness intimidation. Forwarding to the judge immediately. Document everything. Do not respond to Trask under any circumstances.
Solange's message comes right after:What the actual fuck. Please make sure to show your security detail, they need to be taking this seriously. Are you okay?
I text Solange back: I'm fine. Derek, the security assigned to me is still here. And his boss, Hayes is already adjusting protocols.
Then I stare at my phone trying to decide if I should also send it to Jax. It feels like he's asked for space the same way I did. Sending him Trask's escalation would be pulling him back into protection mode when we're both supposed to be figuring out if the attraction survives without the threats.
But he'd want to know. Would probably be furious if I kept this from him, if something happened because I was too committed to maintaining distance to ask for help.
I open our text thread, stare at his last message from Friday:No. I won't be watching. That's what you asked for.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to find words that communicate threat without emotional manipulation. Finally I just forward Trask's message with no additional context. I’ll let him decide what to do with the information.
His response takes three minutes:When did this come in?
Me:Five minutes ago. I sent it to Mira and Blackwood already.
Jax:Good. Don't respond to him. Block the number. If he contacts you through different means, document but don't engage.
Me:Brandon from the security firm says they're adjusting threat assessment to active.
Jax:They're right. Trask is moving from observation to intimidation. Next step is usually direct confrontation or property violation.
The clinical assessment is exactly what Brandon provided, except coming from Jax it carries different weight. He's not just analyzing threat patterns. He's worried about me specifically, personally, in ways professional security can't replicate.
Me:Are you okay? With all this?
The question is too loaded, asks too many things at once. Are you okay with me being threatened? Are you okay with not being the one protecting me? Are you okay with the space I asked for when threats are escalating?
His response takes longer this time:I'm okay with you having professional protection. I'm not okay with Trask escalating.
Me:But you're staying back. Like I asked.
Jax:Yes. Like you asked.
Me:Even though that makes this harder.
Jax:Especially because it makes this harder. Lana, if I come back now, you'll never know if you wanted me or just wanted protection. Neither of us will know. So I'mstaying back, and you're figuring it out with security that isn't emotionally complicated.
The logic is sound and brutal. This is what I asked for—space to separate attraction from dependency, time to understand if what I feel survives without Jax as a constant presence in my camera feeds. But having the space feels worse than any outcome I'd anticipated.
Me:I miss you.
The words feel like a breach as I type them. They violate the spirit of the distance we're supposed to be maintaining and pull at him in ways that aren't fair when I'm the one who asked for separation.
His response is immediate:I miss you too. But missing isn't the same as needing. Figure out which one you're feeling.
Then nothing else. No additional texts, no offers to come over despite Trask's escalation, no violation of the boundary I set three days ago. Just the space I asked for, delivered with the same ruthless precision he brings to everything else.
I put down my phone before I can type anything else that undermines the boundary I established.
I lean against the door for a moment, the surreal reality settling over me—there's a professional bodyguard in my apartment because someone might actually try to kill me.
