Chapter 148
Lena's POV
The security team moved in formation around me, David at point, two others flanking. We pushed through the glass doors into chaos—cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions I couldn't process through the ringing in my ears.
"Ms. Grant, how do you respond to the photos—"
"Is it true your father is still at large—"
"Do you regret going public—"
David's hand on my elbow, firm but not rough. Steering me toward the black SUV idling at the curb. Emily materialized on my other side, her body blocking the worst of the cameras.
I kept my eyes forward. Didn't look at the phones thrust in my face, didn't acknowledge the questions. Just walked.
The SUV door slammed shut, muffling the noise. I exhaled.
"You okay?" Emily's hand found mine in the darkness of the backseat.
I nodded. Didn't trust my voice yet.
My phone buzzed. Then again. And again. A relentless vibration against my thigh.
I pulled it out. The lock screen was flooded with notifications. Texts, emails, social media mentions piling up faster than I could track.
"Don't," Emily said quietly. "Not yet."
But I'd already seen enough. The preview text from Rachel: Photos everywhere. Twitter, Reddit, news sites. I'm so sorry.
I locked the phone. Slid it back in my pocket.
"Lena—"
"I knew this would happen," I said. My voice sounded flat, detached. "He warned me."
The SUV pulled into traffic. Through the tinted window, I watched Silverton slide past—buildings I'd known my whole life, streets I'd walked a thousand times. Everything looked the same. Nothing felt the same.
My phone rang. Rowan.
"I'm fine," I said before he could ask.
"David's taking you home. I'm coordinating with Kenneth." A pause. "We're close, Lena. Six hours, maybe less."
"Six hours until what?"
"Until we know exactly where he is."
I closed my eyes. Six hours. Marcus had been a ghost for weeks, slipping through Interpol's net, leaving only encrypted messages and threats. And now—
"He's in Geneva," Rowan continued. "Kenneth's people confirmed it two hours ago. He's holed up in a hotel under a false passport, but he doesn't know we've found him yet."
"And then?"
"And then he's done."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to feel the relief that should come with those words.
Instead, I felt nothing. Just the same cold knot that had lived in my chest for as long as I could remember.
"Lena? You still there?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"I'll be at your place in twenty minutes. Kenneth's flying in tonight to oversee the arrest personally."
The call ended.
Emily was watching me. "What did he say?"
"They found Marcus. In Geneva." I stared at my hands. Clean now, but this morning they'd been covered in ink from the statement I'd read. "They're going to arrest him."
"That's good news."
"Is it?"
She didn't answer. What could she say? We both knew the photos were already out there, spreading like poison through every corner of the internet. Arresting Marcus wouldn't undo that.
The SUV slowed. We were nearly at my building.
My phone buzzed again. This time, Diana's name flashed on screen.
"We've filed takedown notices with every major platform," she said without preamble. "Legal basis is clear—distribution of child abuse material. Most sites are complying, but it's going to take time."
"How much time?"
"Hours for the big platforms. Days for the smaller ones." A pause. "But Lena, there's something else. The response isn't all negative."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Check the #IStandWithLena hashtag. Survivors are coming forward. Lawyers, child welfare advocates, even some prosecutors. They're amplifying your statement, not the photos."
I pulled up Twitter with shaking hands. The hashtag was trending. Hundreds of posts, maybe thousands. Strangers sharing their own stories, expressing support, demanding accountability.
She's braver than all of us. #IStandWithLena
Twenty years of abuse and she still stood up in public. That's not weakness. That's strength.
Marcus Grant is a monster. Lena Grant is a survivor. Know the difference.
My throat tightened.
"Lena?" Diana's voice, cautious. "You there?"
"Yeah. I see it."
"We're winning the narrative war. It's not over, but we're winning."
After we hung up, I sat in the SUV for a long moment, staring at the building's entrance. David waited, patient.
"Ms. Grant?"
I nodded. Pushed open the door.
---
The apartment felt too quiet.
I stood in the kitchen, watching the city lights flicker on as dusk settled over Silverton. Rowan had texted ten minutes ago: Downstairs. Coming up.
The door clicked open. He moved through the space with that careful deliberation I'd come to recognize—checking sight lines, glancing at windows, making sure I was safe before he let himself relax.
"Kenneth lands at eight," he said. "Interpol and the FBI are coordinating. Swiss authorities signed off on the arrest warrant an hour ago."
"When?"
"Tonight. They're waiting until he's asleep, minimize the risk of him running."
I nodded slowly. Tonight. It should feel like an ending.
It felt like waiting for another bomb to drop.
Rowan's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, frowned.
"What?"
"Jack. He's asking if we want to meet for drinks after the arrest is confirmed." Rowan looked up. "Diana suggested it. She said—and I quote—'we've earned the right to celebrate before we all collapse.'"
A drink. With the team. Like normal people celebrating a victory.
I almost said no. But then I thought of Diana's voice on the phone, matter-of-fact and steady. Thought of Rachel's relentless support. Thought of Jack, who'd worked twelve-hour days to build the case.
"Okay," I heard myself say. "After."
Rowan's expression softened. "Okay."