3. Mia
MIA
Idon't want to be here, but everyone who matters in New York food is here. Which is why I'm here, even though the black rose is still sitting in my office trash can and every time my phone rings I half-expect it to be Derek.
"You look like you're about to run," Olivia says beside me. She's holding two glasses of prosecco, and offers me one.
I take it. "I'm fine."
"You're scanning exits."
"Force of habit."
She studies me over the rim of her glass.
We're standing near the bar, far enough from the main crowd that we can talk without shouting over the music.
A jazz quartet plays near the back, something smooth and instrumental that blends into the ambient noise of a hundred conversations happening at once.
"He's not here," Olivia reminds me.
"You don't know that."
"I do. I have two security guys at the door checking names against the guest list. Derek Wayne is not on that list."
I drain half my prosecco in one swallow. It's good, floral, and dry. Too easy to drink.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just try to enjoy yourself for five minutes."
She squeezes my shoulder and drifts into the crowd, immediately pulled into conversation with a James Beard finalist I recognize from Instagram. I watch her go, then turn back to the bar and order a glass of wine. Something red, something with enough tannin to steady my nerves.
The bartender pours a Malbec. I take it and move toward the windows, where the view opens onto the road and the stream of headlights flowing south through the city.
I sip my wine and pretend I'm anywhere else.
Three people stop me in the first ten minutes.
A food blogger who wants to schedule a review, an investor who heard about Sable through a mutual contact, a critic from Eater who asks pointed questions about my menu influences and sourcing practices.
I answer on autopilot, smile at the right moments, exchange business cards I'll probably never follow up on.
By the time I finish my second glass of wine, my shoulders have started to unknot.
Maybe Olivia's right. Derek isn't here, and maybe the black rose was a last gasp, a last attempt to rattle me before he moves on to whatever comes next in his horrible life.
I'm reaching for a third glass when I see him.
He's across the room, standing near the fireplace with a drink in one hand and his phone in the other.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark suit that fits like it was made for him.
Dark hair slightly longer on top, styled in a way that looks effortless but probably took ten minutes in front of a mirror.
He's talking to someone I don't recognize, laughing at something, and when he turns slightly I catch his profile.
Sharp jaw. Ice-blue eyes. A faint scar along his jawline that somehow makes him more attractive instead of less.
Ethan Evans.
I recognize him immediately from the news coverage. Slimeball Attorney, the Post called him. The guy who got Tobias Ripley acquitted on a technicality, only for Ripley to put his girlfriend in the hospital three weeks later.
He looks exactly like the man who'd do that and sleep like a baby afterward.
I turn back to the bar and order that third glass of wine.
"Mia Holland."
I freeze. The voice comes from directly behind me, smooth with just enough drawl to suggest he's used to being listened to.
I turn.
Ethan Evans stands two feet away, holding a tumbler of something amber. Up close he's even more annoyingly handsome. The scar is from an old injury, faded but visible. His eyes are the color of a winter sky, sharp and assessing in a way that makes me want to take a step back.
I don't.
"Do I know you?" I ask.
His mouth quirks. "No. But I know you. I had the duck at your soft opening last week."
"You were at Sable?"
"Friend of an investor. The duck was exceptional, by the way. Sweet potato puree had this depth I couldn't place. Miso?"
"Tahini."
"Smart." He takes a sip of his drink, watches me over the rim. "You don't look thrilled to be here."
"I'm networking."
"You're hiding by the bar."
"Same thing."
He laughs. It's a good laugh, genuine in a way that doesn't match the rest of him.
"Ethan Evans," he says, extending his hand.
I look at it. "I know who you are."
"Then you have me at a disadvantage."
"Do I?"
His hand drops. The smile stays but something shifts behind his eyes, amusement sharpening into interest.
"You're upset about the Ripley case," he says.
"I'm upset that you're standing here acting like you did nothing wrong."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"A woman is in the hospital."
"A woman who wasn't my client." His tone hasn't changed, still easy and conversational, but there's steel underneath now. "Our justice system doesn't convict people for crimes they might commit in the future."
"No. It just lets lawyers exploit technicalities so abusers walk free."
"The chain of custody was broken. That's due process. I can't let the prosecution get away with shit like that."
"Due process." I laugh dryly. "That's what you're going with?"
"Would you prefer I lied about the law?"
"I'd prefer you showed an ounce of accountability."
"For what? Doing my job?"
"For lacking judgment."
His jaw tightens. It's brief, barely noticeable, but I catch it.
"You sound like my boss," he says.
"Your boss sounds smart."
"My boss thinks I should apologize for being good at what I do."
"Maybe you should apologize for being good at the wrong things."
We're standing close now, closer than strangers should stand at a networking event. I can smell his cologne. His eyes haven't left mine.
"You don't know me," he whispers.
"I know your type."
"And what type is that?"
"A man who wins at any cost and convinces himself it's principle."
His mouth curves. "You're making a lot of assumptions."
"Am I wrong?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just looks at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, some argument he needs to crack open and dissect.
"No," he says finally. "You're not wrong."
The honesty catches me off guard. I blink, take a sip of wine to cover my surprise.
"Then why are you here?" I ask. "Trolling for good press?"
"Something like that."
"At least you're honest about it."
"I'm always honest. That's my problem."
"Your problem is thinking honesty excuses everything else."
He tilts his head, studies me. "You really don't like me."
"I don't know you."
"But you've decided, anyway."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I've met men like you. Men who think being smart makes them right. Who weaponize logic and call it integrity."
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. "That's a hell of an assessment based on two minutes of conversation," he says.
"But did I lie?"
"Maybe." He finishes his drink, setting the empty glass on a passing tray. "Or maybe you're angrier about something else and I'm just convenient."
I feel my spine stiffen, my fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass.
"You don't know anything about me," I say.
"No. But I know what it looks like when someone's running from something."
The air between us grows cold. His expression has changed, gone from amused to something more careful. He's still looking at me but differently now, like he's seeing past the argument to whatever's underneath.
I should walk away. End this conversation and go home.
Instead I hear myself say, "I'm being stalked by my ex-boyfriend."
Ethan goes very still.
"He left a black rose at my restaurant last week," I continue.
My voice sounds strange, detached. The wine is hitting harder than I expected.
"During my soft opening. He has a restraining order against him, but he's wealthy and well-connected and legally untouchable, apparently.
So yeah. Maybe I'm angry about something else.
Maybe you're just a convenient outlet to vent my feelings to. "
The party continues around us, laughter and music and clinking glasses, but right now it feels like we're standing in a pocket of quiet.
"How long has this been going on?" Ethan asks. His voice has changed, gone soft and serious.
"On and off for two years. Actively for about eighteen months before the restraining order. Now it's just... reminders. That he's still there."
"The restraining order's active?"
"For another eight months."
"And he violated it."
"I don't know. Maybe he had someone else leave the rose."
"You think that matters?"
I look up at him. "You tell me. You're the lawyer."
His jaw works. He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet.
"It matters. If he violated the order directly, you can file for enforcement. If he used a proxy, it's more complicated but still actionable depending on whether you can prove intent."
"Proving intent requires evidence I don't have."
"Then get it."
"How?"
"Security cameras, witness statements, pattern documentation." He pauses. "Or you hire someone who knows how to build that case."
"I can't afford that kind of lawyer."
"I'm not talking about payment."
I stare at him. "You're offering to help me."
"I'm offering to look at your situation."
"...Why?"
"Because I'm trying to rehabilitate my public image and you have a sympathetic case?"
The honesty is so blunt it almost makes me laugh.
"At least you're not pretending to be altruistic," I say.
"Would you prefer I did?"
"No."
"Then we're on the same page."
I drain the last of my wine, set the glass on the bar. My head is buzzing pleasantly now, edges softened. This is a terrible idea. Ethan Evans is exactly the man I should avoid: arrogant, calculating, too smart for his own good.
But he's also standing here offering help I desperately need.
"I don't trust you," I say.
"Smart."
"But I also don't have a lot of options."
"Even smarter."
I meet his eyes. They're still that impossible blue-gray, still assessing, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like respect.
"Give me your card," I say.
He pulls one from his inside jacket pocket, hands it over. Heavy stock, embossed lettering. Ethan Evans, Partner, Holt & Brennan LLP.
I slip it into my clutch.
"I'll think about it," I say.
"Take your time." He steps back, gives me space. "For what it's worth, the duck really was incredible."
Then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd as if he was never there at all.
I stand at the bar, staring at the empty space where he stood, and wonder what the hell I just agreed to.