We spend the rest of the morning working—reviewing grant applications we've submitted to larger foundations for program funding, a video call with our contract accountant about budget allocation, calls with potential donors who want to understand our impact metrics before committing funds.
Normal foundation work that should feel grounding but mostly just reminds me how much of my life I've built on Gabriel's money. Every survivor we help with emergency housing funds, every legal retainer we pay, every safety plan we resource—all of it seeded by blood money from a man who spent five years systematically trying to destroy me.
The irony never quite loses its edge.
At one PM, Maya orders lunch delivery for everyone—Mediterranean from the place down the block. It arrives with enough portions for four, and we gather in the conference room to eat. Derek accepts his container with professional gratitude, taking it back to his position by Maya's desk in the receptionarea where he can monitor the entrance. The rest of us spread out around the conference table, reviewing afternoon schedules between bites of falafel and hummus.
"Board meeting is at six," Solange reminds me, pulling up the agenda on her tablet. "Thomas sent revised financials this morning. Diana's pushing the donor diversification conversation again."
"They're going to ask about the security situation," Solange says, gesturing with her fork toward where Derek sits visible through her office window. "The board knows about Ezra's will contest. They're going to want assurance that your personal complications aren't going to impact foundation operations."
"What do I tell them?"
"The truth. Ezra's legal challenge has been withdrawn. You've hired professional security to handle residual threats. The foundation's operations remain completely separate from your personal situation." She sets down her food, her voice softening. "But Lana, if the threats escalate past what Blackwood can handle, we need to talk about whether you should step back temporarily. Not permanently—just until Trask and whoever hired him are neutralized."
The suggestion hits like physical contact. Step back from the foundation. From the one thing I've built that's actually mine, that isn't contaminated by Gabriel's control or Jax's surveillance or anyone else's influence. The one space where I get to make decisions and help people and prove that I'm more than just the widow with convenient timing.
"I'm not stepping back," I say.
"I'm not saying you have to. I'm saying we need a contingency plan if the situation deteriorates." Solange'sexpression is gentle but firm. "You matter more than the foundation. If staying in this position puts you at genuine risk, we find another solution."
I don't respond because acknowledging the possibility feels like surrendering to Ezra's tactics. He wants me destabilized, wants my life disrupted enough that I give up Gabriel's inheritance just to make the chaos stop. Stepping back from the foundation would be exactly the kind of victory he's trying to engineer.
At five-thirty, board members start arriving. Seven people who care deeply about the foundation's mission and also care deeply about ensuring their donated funds are managed competently.
Derek repositions himself outside the conference room, coordinates with building security about monitoring the floor during our meeting. Then we're inside, and I'm presenting budget projections and program expansions and survivor assistance metrics with the performance of competence I've been cultivating since Gabriel died.
Nobody asks about my personal security situation directly. But I can see them noticing Derek's presence, and can feel their assessment of whether my complications make me a liability. We maintain the polite fiction that my personal life doesn't intersect with professional responsibilities, that I'm here purely as executive director rather than as the woman whose trauma funded this entire operation.
The meeting ends at seven-forty. I shake hands, accept congratulations on our growth metrics, and promise to send follow-up documentation by the end of week. Then I'm in the hallway with Derek, who's already positioning himself between me and any potential threats as we move toward the elevator.
"Smooth meeting?" he asks, which is the most personal question he's asked all day.
"As smooth as board meetings get." I'm pulling out my phone, checking for messages I know won't be there. Nothing from Jax. Nothing from Trask. Just Mira saying she filed formal harassment complaints about Trask's morning text.
The elevator arrives. We step inside, doors closing on our reflection in the polished metal—me in my armor of professional clothing, Derek in his casual outfit that somehow communicates "don't mess with this person's client." We look exactly like what we are: a woman and her hired protection, a relationship defined by transaction rather than connection.
As we step into the SUV, my phone vibrates. Text from unknown number:Board meeting ran late. Your security doesn't look as alert at 8 PM. Something to consider. —OT
My hands go cold. Trask was watching the building. Watching me leave. Making sure I know that Derek's presence doesn't actually stop him from monitoring my movements.
I screenshot the message, then cross to where Derek is standing. 'You need to see this.' I hold out my phone. He reads it, his expression hardening in ways that suggest this isn't surprising, just confirming what he already suspected.
"He's been watching the building," Derek says, already texting someone—probably Brandon or Neil, coordinating response. "Time to go on offense. We'll implement counter-surveillance, document his patterns, make it clear he's not invisible. Give your attorney ammunition for a restraining order."
"Can you actually stop him?"
"We can make it harder. Force him to work for access, increase the cost of surveillance until it's not worth whateverhe's being paid." Derek's voice carries the clinical detachment of someone delivering threat assessments regularly. "But Ms. Pope, complete prevention is nearly impossible if he's funded well enough and motivated enough. The best we can do is make the effort expensive."
The honesty is more terrifying than reassurance would have been. Trask isn't going to stop. Derek's protection can make me harder to access but can't eliminate the threat completely. I'm going to spend however long this takes—weeks, months—knowing that someone is watching, documenting, waiting for opportunities to escalate beyond texts into actual confrontation.
We're pulling out of the parking garage, when I make the decision that violates every boundary I established three days ago. I open my text thread with Jax and type before I can second-guess it:Trask was outside the foundation tonight. He sent another message. I'm forwarding it. Not asking you to do anything. Just thought you should know.
I attach Trask's latest text, hit send, and watch the message deliver with the certainty that this is exactly the kind of contact I'm supposed to be avoiding. But I also can't shake the feeling that Derek's professional competence isn't enough, that Trask is playing a game requiring someone who understands him specifically rather than just threat profiles in general.
Jax's response comes within two minutes:Did Derek see him? Get photos?
Me:No. Trask sent the text right before we got in the car.
