Chapter 139
Lena's POV
2:47 a.m. The numbers on my phone glowed accusatory in the dark.
I'd been lying here for hours, staring at the ceiling, calculating. Nine a.m.—that's when we'd submit the materials simultaneously to the FBI, Interpol, and Swiss authorities. Six-hour time difference to Zurich. Which meant Marcus would know by mid-afternoon, European time.
And then what?
I sat up, my heart rate picking up despite my best efforts to stay calm. This wasn't panic. This was lawyer's logic, running the scenarios, anticipating the opponent's next move.
Marcus had those images. The ones Alexander had recovered from the phone. Seven-year-old me, bruised and barely clothed, cowering in corners of rooms I'd spent twenty years trying not to remember.
He'd kept them for a reason. Insurance, leverage—call it what you want. And when a man like Marcus felt cornered, when he saw the walls closing in...
My breathing quickened. I pressed my palm flat against my sternum, feeling my pulse hammer beneath the skin.
He'd leak them. Of course he would.
I could see it so clearly: those photos splashed across social media, paired with whatever twisted narrative he chose. Grant Family Secrets Exposed. Legal forums dissecting my childhood trauma like a case study. Clients pulling contracts. Colleagues' carefully neutral expressions. The questions, the scrutiny, the—
I swung my legs out of bed before the spiral could pull me under.
My hands were shaking. I looked at them in the dim light filtering through the curtains, watched the tremor I couldn't quite control.
Call Emily.
The thought came with absolute clarity. I grabbed my phone, pulled up her contact, hesitated only a second before hitting dial.
She answered on the second ring, her voice alert. "You can't sleep either?"
Something in my chest loosened slightly. "No."
"Tell me."
I did. Concise, factual—the submission timeline, the probable window before Marcus learned of it, the images he possessed. My voice stayed level throughout, a near-perfect impression of calm.
Emily's three-second silence told me she heard past it.
"Lena. Listen to me carefully." Her tone had shifted into the one she used with clients in crisis—warm but unshakeable. "If he does release those images, here's what happens. First: you immediately cut off all social media and news feeds. Second: you don't read a single comment. Third: your team handles everything. Diana, me, Rowan—we'll manage the response while you focus on staying safe."
She kept going, outlining specifics. Trauma counselors on standby. Alexander's tech team ready to track and request takedowns. Diana prepared to file emergency injunctions.
I listened to her careful preparation, her protective instincts, and felt an unexpected resistance rise in my throat.
"Thank you, Emily." My voice came out quieter than intended. "But I—"
I stopped. How to explain this?
"But what?" Her concern sharpened. "Lena, this isn't the time to be tough. If those images go public, the psychological impact—"
"I know." I cut her off gently. "I know exactly what it could do. But I don't want to hide."
Silence.
"Emily, if I cut off my phone, lock myself away, let everyone else handle it—what's the difference between that and being seven years old again?" The words came faster now, urgent. "Back then, I chose to forget the trauma because I was too small, too weak to do anything else. Forgetting was the only protection I had."
I stood up, pacing toward the window. The city stretched below, dotted with lights.
"But I'm not seven anymore."
"Lena." Emily's voice carried obvious worry. "You've only had three sessions with Dr. Taylor. Forcing yourself to face public judgment of your trauma could—"
"Could destroy me?" I turned from the window. "You want to know what would actually destroy me, Emily?"
My voice caught. I pushed through it.
"Watching those images get used as weapons. Watching Marcus twist them into something else, control the narrative, turn my pain into his leverage—while I do nothing. That's what would break me. The helplessness."
I heard her breathing on the other end of the line.
"When I was seven, I had no choice. But right now, I do." My hand pressed against the cool glass. "I'm a lawyer. I understand how to advocate for victims. If I can't even advocate for myself, how do I look at the case files on my desk? How do I face Katya's photograph?"
The silence stretched longer this time.
Then Emily exhaled. "Okay. But you need to tell me—what exactly are you planning?"
I was already moving toward my office, bare feet soundless on the hardwood.
"I'm going to beat him to it."
"What?"
"I'll draft a formal statement disclosing the existence of those images myself. I'll explain what they depict—childhood abuse documented by my abuser." I pushed open my office door, the familiar space steadying me. "I'll release it simultaneously with the case filing."
"Lena—"
"Think about it from a legal standpoint." I sat down at my desk, woke my computer. "If I disclose proactively, Marcus loses all leverage. Those images stop being 'exposure' and become 'evidence.' I'm not the victim who got caught—I'm the survivor who's prosecuting her abuser."
I could hear Emily processing this, her therapist brain running through implications.
"I understand the legal logic," she said slowly. "But psychologically, choosing to expose your own trauma requires enormous resilience. Are you certain you're ready?"
My cursor blinked on a blank document.
"I don't know if I'm ready. But I know that if I wait until I feel ready, Marcus will have already moved." I pulled up a new file. "I don't want to be passive, Emily. I want to be my own shield this time."
Another pause. Then, softer: "Alright. I'm with you. But you send me the draft before it goes anywhere. And Dr. Taylor will call you at eight a.m."
"Deal."
After we hung up, I sat in the quiet of my office. Just me and the computer screen and the decision I'd made.
I closed my eyes. Saw that little girl in the photographs—curled in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes vacant. Remembered the confusion of waking up in a hospital bed, a doctor's kind lies about falling into rose bushes. The blank spaces in my memory that I'd learned not to question.
You were too young to fight back then, I thought toward that child. You could only survive by forgetting. But I can do something different now. I can tell them what happened. I can make sure they know it wasn't your fault.