4. Ethan
ETHAN
Ican't stop thinking about her.
This isn't how I operate. I compartmentalize. Case files go in one mental drawer, personal life in another, and never the two shall meet. But Mia Holland has been occupying brain space for the past sixteen hours, which is approximately fifteen hours longer than anyone usually gets.
It started the moment she told me about the ex. The stalking, the black rose, the restraining order that clearly wasn't doing its job. Something clicked into place then, a solution presenting itself with the clean capability of a closing argument.
By the time I left Flavor Fusion, the framework was already forming.
Now, sitting in my office at seven in the morning with lukewarm coffee and my laptop open to three different tabs, the picture is complete.
Derek Wayne. Age thirty-seven, architect, principal at Wayne & Associates, a boutique firm that designs luxury residences for people who think money can buy taste.
His father is Gregory Wayne, a real estate developer with a portfolio worth somewhere north of two hundred million.
The family has ties to half the judges in Manhattan.
No criminal record beyond the restraining order Mia filed eighteen months ago.
Which means he's exactly as slippery as I expected.
I pull up the restraining order filing. Standard language, two-year duration, prohibits contact within five hundred feet of Mia or her residence.
She filed it pro se, represented herself, which tells me she either couldn't afford a lawyer or didn't trust one.
The judge granted it without much fuss, probably because Derek had the good sense not to contest.
Smart. Contesting would've created a record. This way he looks reasonable, cooperative. The restraining order becomes a formality, something he can point to later as evidence that he's moved on.
Except he hasn't moved on.
I close the tab, lean back in my chair. The office is quiet, the rest of the floor still empty. I like mornings before the phones start ringing, before clients show up demanding miracles. Just me and whatever problem I'm currently dissecting.
And right now the problem is this: Mia Holland needs protection Derek Wayne's family money can buy around. And I need an image overhaul that doesn't look like transparent damage control.
A fake marriage would solve both.
The idea is absurd, which is probably why it works.
Me, Ethan Evans, a morally bankrupt defense attorney.
I fall for a passionate Black woman restaurateur who's building something meaningful in her community.
The press would eat it up. Redemption through love, the cynic learning to care about something besides winning.
It hits every beat Patricia and Richard want without feeling like too much of a chore.
And for Mia, it gives her exactly what she needs: my name, my legal resources, and a very public claim on her that makes Derek think twice about escalating. Stalkers operate in shadows. Put a spotlight on their target and they tend to retreat.
I open a new document, start outlining terms.
The list expands. I add clauses about media management, NDAs, what happens if one of us actually starts seeing someone. By the time I'm finished, it reads less like a marriage proposal and more like a corporate merger.
Which is exactly what it is.
Sable opens for lunch service at eleven. That gives me four hours to refine the pitch, anticipate her objections, and figure out how to present this in a way that doesn't get me thrown out on my ass.
I finish my coffee, close the laptop, and head for the door.
Sable looks different in daylight. The warm glow from last week's soft opening is gone, replaced by natural light streaming through the front windows. The dining room is empty except for a couple of servers setting tables, folding napkins into precise triangles, and checking salt cellars.
I spot Mia through the kitchen pass. She's at the stove, tasting something from a small saucepan, frowning in concentration. Her hair is pulled back in a high bun, and she's wearing a black chef's coat with her name embroidered in gold on the chest.
One of the servers notices me standing near the hostess stand. She's young, maybe early twenties, with box braids and a name tag that says Tanya.
"We're not open yet," she says. Polite but firm.
"I'm here to see Mia Holland."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
"Then I can take a message."
"Tell her Ethan Evans is here."
Tanya's expression shifts slightly, recognition flickering across her face. She disappears into the kitchen. A moment later Mia emerges, wiping her hands on a towel. She sees me and stops.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Good morning to you, too."
She crosses the dining room, stops a few feet away. Her expression is somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. She glances at Tanya, who's pretending to check her seating chart but clearly listening. Mia jerks her head toward the back.
"You've got five minutes."
I follow her through the kitchen, past line cooks prepping for lunch service.
The space smells like rendered onions and fresh bread, a smell that makes you hungry even if you just ate.
Mia's office is barely large enough for a desk and a filing cabinet.
She shuts the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed.
"Start talking."
"I have a proposal."
She scoffs. "I figured."
"Hear me out before you say no."
"I'm already saying no."
"You don't know what I'm proposing."
"I know it involves you, which is enough."
I smile. Can't help it. She's sharp, guarded, and thoroughly unimpressed with me. It's refreshing after a career spent around people who defer because I'm good at my job.
"Marry me," I say.
Silence.
Mia stares at me like I've just suggested we rob a bank together. Then, she blinks slowly as the frown only deepens on her lips. "Excuse me?"
"A fake marriage. One year, clearly defined terms. It’ll be a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"You're fucking insane."
"Oh, absolutely. But I'm also right."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You show up at my restaurant and propose a fake marriage. Are you hearing yourself? Do you need a psych eval?"
"I hear myself fine. The question is whether you're hearing me."
"I'm hearing a man with a publicity problem trying to solve it by using me."
"Yes. And you're a woman with a stalker problem that legal channels aren't solving. This helps both of us."
"How exactly does marrying you help me?"
"Derek Wayne operates in the shadows," I say. "He leaves roses, makes himself known without direct contact, stays just inside the legal lines. That works because you're alone. You file reports, but there's no weight behind them. No public scrutiny, no consequences he actually fears."
"And marrying you changes that how?"
"Because suddenly you're not alone. You're married to a very visible attorney with a reputation for being ruthless.
The narrative shifts from 'woman being stalked' to 'man harassing someone under my protection.
' Derek's smart enough to know that escalation becomes a lot riskier when there's someone like me in the picture. "
She's listening now. I can see it in the way her arms loosen slightly, the way her expression shifts from outright dismissal to skeptical consideration.
"You're saying your reputation intimidates him," she says.
"I'm saying my resources do. I can have investigators document his movements, build a case for order violation that actually sticks. I can make his life uncomfortable in ways he's not prepared for."
"And in exchange you get… what? Good press?"
"A compelling story. Man with a checkered past falls for a woman building something meaningful. The media loves redemption arcs. This gives them one."
"So I'm your redemption."
"You're my strategic partner in a beneficial arrangement."
Mia huffs. "You're not even trying to make this sound romantic."
"Would you prefer I did?"
She studies me for a long moment. Her eyes are dark, unreadable. She's weighing the offer, turning it over, looking for the catch.
"What are the terms?" she asks finally.
I pull out my phone, open the document I drafted this morning.
"Marriage lasts one year. We maintain separate residences except for scheduled public appearances.
No shared assets, no financial entanglement beyond what's necessary for appearances.
I cover all legal costs related to Derek. You retain full ownership of Sable."
"Public appearances meaning what?"
"Dinners, charity events, the occasional photo op. Enough to sell the story."
"How often?"
"Twice a month, minimum."
"And after a year?"
"Clean divorce. Mutual statement about irreconcilable differences, no blame assigned. We walk away and never speak again if that's what you want."
She takes the phone, scrolls through the document. Her expression doesn't change as she reads, which tells me she's good at holding her cards close.
"This is insane," she says again, but there's less conviction this time.
"Maybe. But it works."
"For you."
"For both of us."
She hands the phone back. "What happens if one of us actually starts seeing someone?"
"There's a clause for that. Discretion required, no public relationships until after the divorce."
"And if Derek doesn't back off?"
"Then we extend the timeline and escalate legal pressure until he does."
She walks to the window, looks out at the street. Her shoulders are tense, hands shoved into the pockets of her chef's coat. I wait. Pushing now would backfire.
"I don't trust you," she says without turning around.
"I know."
"I don't even like you."
"Also clear."
"But I need help. And I don't have a lot of options."
"No. You don't."
She turns and meets my eyes. Mia crosses her arms again, but the tension has shifted. She's still wary but considering, which is more than I had five minutes ago.
"One year," she says. "And then we're done."
"That's all I'm asking."
She exhales slowly. "Fine. But I want everything in writing. Every term, every expectation, every clause, every fucking detail, even the most minor."
"I'll have a contract drafted by tomorrow."
"Good." She moves toward the door, pauses with her hand on the knob. "This is the most insane thing I've ever agreed to."
"Noted."
"And if this blows up in my face, I'm blaming you."
"Wouldn't expect anything else."
She opens the door. "Now get out. I have a lunch service to prep."
I follow her into the kitchen, past the line cooks who've definitely been eavesdropping. Tanya looks up from her seating chart as we pass, eyes wide.
At the front door, Mia stops. "When do we start?"
"Soon as the contract's signed."
"And the public appearances?"
"I'll coordinate with my publicist. We'll need an engagement story, a few staged photos. The timeline moves fast from there."
"Of course it does."
I extend my hand. "Partners?"
She looks at it for a long moment, then shakes. Her grip is firm, no hesitation.
"Fine," she says. "But don't get used to it."
I leave Sable with the sun bright overhead and the satisfying certainty that I've just solved two problems with one completely unhinged solution.
Richard's going to love this. Or he'll chew my head off for it. Either way, it's going to work.