I change into clothes appropriate for the office—black pants, silk blouse, the armor I wear when I need people to take me seriously. I apply makeup that hides the shadows under my eyes from three nights of barely sleeping and pull my hair back in a way that suggests competence rather than the mess I've been since Friday.
Derek looks up as I emerge from the bedroom, already standing straight.
"I’m ready.” I say, grabbing my bag from the kitchen counter.
He's already moving toward the door.
The drive to the foundation takes exactly twelve minutes through Monday morning traffic. Derek navigates Miramont's streets with the efficiency of someone who's memorized optimal routes, the SUV's tinted windows turning the city into something darker than it actually is. We pass Morrison Street—four blocks from where Jax lives in his fourth-floor walk-up with broken elevators and shelves full of poetry I've never seen except through the single visit to his apartment.
I'm looking for his building without meaning to, scanning windows like proximity to his space might substitute for actual contact. The apartment where he told me about Trask and Reese, where I asked him to remove surveillance, where we agreed on space that's been killing me for three days.
"Ms. Pope?" Derek's voice pulls me back. "We're here."
The foundation office occupies the eighth floor of a building in The Crest where everything costs more than reasonable but looks like it's worth it. Solange and I chose this location deliberately after Gabriel died. We wanted survivors coming to us for help to feel like they were entering a space that took them seriously. That understood resources matter when you're trying to rebuild a life from wreckage.
The original lease gave us three rooms—modest but workable. We've adapted the space over the past few months: the largest room became our reception area where Maya, our receptionist and general assistant, manages intake and scheduling.
We had part of that space partitioned off to create a small private office for Solange. Then there's the conferenceroom where we meet with clients, donors, and the board. And my office, which overlooks the street and still feels too big some days, like I'm playing at being the kind of person who deserves corner views and mahogany furniture.
There's also a kitchenette that came with the space—barely big enough for a coffee maker and mini fridge, but it's ours.
Derek does his security sweep—checks stairwells, confirms exit routes, probably assesses how many ways someone could access our floor without being detected. Then he positions himself in the reception area where Maya is already setting up for the day. She glances at Derek with curious professionalism, then goes back to her computer. Derek becomes part of the furniture in a way that should feel reassuring but mostly just reminds me that I need protecting.
Solange is already in her office when I arrive, coffee in hand, reviewing something on her computer with the focused attention she brings to everything. I tap on her door frame and she looks up, takes in my expression, then gestures me inside.
I close the door behind me.
"Your security detail is very... present," she says, glancing toward the reception area where Derek is visible through the glass partition.
"That's kind of the point." I sink into the chair across from her desk, suddenly exhausted even though it's barely ten AM. "Brandon and Neil did the assessment this morning. They think I'm at significant risk for the next seventy-two hours."
"Because of Trask and that Reese guy?" Solange's expression is grim. "He's escalating. Making sure you know he's watching even though you have professional security now."
"Exactly what Jax said when I forwarded it to him."
"You texted Jax." It's not a question.
"I forwarded him a threat. That's different."
"Is it though?" She eyes me suspiciously. "Or are you just finding excuses to maintain contact?"
The assessment stings with uncomfortable accuracy. I forwarded Trask's message to Jax under the justification of keeping him informed about escalating threats. But I also wanted to know if he'd respond, if the space he's maintaining would crack when actual danger surfaced. Testing the boundary even while claiming to respect it.
"Maybe both," I admit. "I don't know anymore."
"That's okay. You're allowed to not know. Just be honest with yourself about what you're doing." She leans back in her chair, studies me with the particular attention she brings when she's trying to figure out how worried to be. "How are you actually doing? With the space, with the professional security, with all of it?"
"I miss him." The words come out before I can stop them. "I miss Jax. Not the surveillance—or maybe I do miss that too, I can't tell anymore. But I miss the way he looked at me like I mattered, like every detail was worth noticing. Derek is professional and competent and everything Jax's surveillance wasn't. And I hate it."
"Because Derek doesn't make you feel seen."
"Exactly. Which is probably the point—healthy security shouldn't feel like intimacy. But now that I have the healthy version, I'm realizing the unhealthy version was what I actually wanted." I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the headache building behind them. "Solange, what if you were right? What if I'm just confusing safety with attraction, and nowthat I've separated them I'm discovering there's nothing real underneath?"
"Then you learn that and move forward. But Lana—" She waits until I lower my hands, until I'm looking at her directly. "You've only had space for three days. That's not enough time to figure out anything except that withdrawal is uncomfortable. Give it a full two weeks. See if the missing evolves into something clearer."
She's right. Three days isn't enough time to separate attraction from dependency, to understand if what I feel for Jax survives without the scaffolding of protection. But three days already feels like forever, and the thought of enduring eleven more days of this particular torture makes my chest tight.
"Okay," I say. "Two weeks. Then I'll decide."
