7. Mia
MIA
The photo goes viral by Sunday morning.
I wake to forty text messages, six missed calls, and an Instagram notification that my restaurant account has been tagged in forty-three posts overnight. I scroll through them with one eye half-closed, still in bed, my phone screen too bright against the gray morning light.
"Power couple alert: Chef Mia Holland and attorney Ethan Evans spotted at the Plaza."
The photo Judith took shows us mid-dance. Ethan's hand rests at the small of my back, his expression unreadable but intent. I'm looking up at him with something on my face that might pass for affection if you squint. The emerald dress photographs beautifully. We look like we belong together.
Which is the entire point and also makes me want to throw my phone across the room.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on sweatpants and an old Howard University hoodie, stumble into the kitchen.
My apartment is small, a one-bedroom in Washington Heights with decent light and a galley kitchen I've spent three years optimizing.
The coffeemaker gurgles to life while I lean against the counter and scroll through more messages.
There's one from a number I don't recognize, one that makes the Kill Bill sirens in my head go off. "Who is he?"
My stomach drops.
I stare at the message. Three words, no context, but I know exactly who sent it. Derek's careful like that, always just vague enough that he can claim innocence if pressed, specific enough that I understand the threat.
Who is he?
The coffee finishes brewing. I pour a cup, add cream, drink half of it standing at the counter while my pulse hammers in my throat. Then I screenshot the message and text it to Ethan.
His response comes within two minutes. "Unknown number?"
"Yes."
"Don't respond. I'll have Josiah trace it. Can you meet me at Sable this afternoon?"
"What time?"
"Three."
"Fine."
I set the phone down and finish my coffee. The apartment feels too small suddenly, walls pressing in. I pull on running shoes and head out for a jog I don't want but need.
Outside, the morning is cool and overcast. I run north toward Fort Tryon Park, pushing harder than usual, trying to outrun the image of Derek sitting somewhere reading about Ethan and me. Wondering who this man is, what he means, whether I'm actually moving on.
The thought should feel like victory. Derek's rattled. Instead it just feels like the space between one breath and the next before something breaks.
Ethan arrives at Sable at exactly three o'clock wearing dark jeans and a baby blue sweater that makes his eyes look softer than usual. He looks less severe without the suit, more human. It's deeply inconvenient.
I'm in the kitchen prepping for dinner service when Tanya tells me he's here. I wipe my hands on my apron, head out to the dining room.
He's standing near the windows, looking out at the street with his hands in his pockets, then he turns when he hears me approach.
"Show me the text," he says without a preface.
I pull out my phone and hand it over. He reads the message once, scrolls up to confirm there's no other context, then opens something on his own phone and starts typing.
"I'm forwarding this to Josiah," he says. "He'll run the number, see if we can connect it to Derek or someone in his circle."
"And if you can't?"
"Then we document it anyway. Pattern of contact, escalating behavior. It all builds the case."
He hands my phone back. Our fingers brush and I pull away too quickly, which he definitely notices but has the grace not to comment on.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
The question surprises both of us. I wasn't planning to offer. But it's three in the afternoon, service doesn't start until five, and the kitchen smells like the short ribs I've been braising since this morning.
Ethan blinks. "I could eat."
"Come on, then."
I lead him back to the kitchen. Jamal looks up from the prep station, does a double take when he sees Ethan, then grins at me with an expression that says we're definitely talking about this later.
"Get back to work," I tell him.
"Yes, Chef."
I gesture Ethan toward the small table we keep in the corner for family meals. It's cramped, barely big enough for two, but it's out of the way. He sits while I plate two servings of the short rib over creamy polenta with roasted root vegetables.
The meat falls apart under my fork. I've been testing this dish for weeks, tweaking the braising liquid until the balance feels right. Red wine, beef stock, fresh thyme, a touch of orange zest. It's rich and complex, a dish that requires the utmost time and attention.
I set both plates on the table, grab two glasses of water, and sit across from him. Ethan stares at the plate like I've just handed him a puzzle.
"You made this," he says, holding back a smile. "Just for me?"
"For both of us. I needed to taste it, anyway. Quality control."
"Right." He picks up his fork, cuts into the short rib, and pauses. "Should I be worried you're poisoning me?"
"If I wanted to poison you, I'd be more subtle about it."
He takes a bite.
I watch his face. Can't help it. You spend enough years cooking for people and you learn to read the moment food hits their palate. The slight widening of the eyes, the pause before the second bite, the way someone's shoulders relax when something tastes exactly right.
Ethan goes very still. Then he takes another bite. And another.
He doesn't say anything for a full minute, just eats with the focus people like him usually reserve for legal briefs or closing arguments. I start on my own plate, giving him space.
"This is incredible," he says finally.
"It's just short rib."
"It's not just anything." He sets down his fork, meets my eyes. "This is the best thing I've eaten in years. Possibly ever."
I feel heat creep up my neck. Compliments about my food usually slide off me like water; professional praise I've learned to accept gracefully. But something about the way he says it, quiet and sincere and slightly awed, lands differently.
"The orange zest is what makes it," I say, because I need to say something. "Cuts through the richness."
"I wouldn't have thought of that."
"Most people wouldn't."
We eat in silence for a while. The kitchen hums around us, prep work continuing, the steady rhythm of knives against cutting boards. Jamal plates something at the pass, calls out an order. It's familiar and comforting. My space.
And Ethan fits into it with an ease I wasn't expecting.
"The photo's everywhere," I say after a few minutes.
"I know. Richard called this morning. He's pleased."
"Your boss is pleased you're fake-dating a chef?"
"Fake-marrying, technically. And yes. Apparently I look quote 'humanized.'"
"How flattering for both of us."
"Isn't it?" He finishes the last bite, sets down his fork. "Derek must have seen it. That's why he texted."
"I figured."
"He's scared." Ethan leans back in his chair, and I'm distracted by the way the afternoon light catches in his hair.
"I know men like him. Derek operates on control.
The lilies were an assertion of it, reminding you he knows things about you.
The text is a crack in that control. He's asking a question, which means he's desperate for answers. "
"So we're winning."
"We're making progress."
I stand, collect our plates. Ethan rises too, reaching for his glass.
"I've got it," I say.
"You cooked. I can clean up."
"You're a guest."
"I'm your fake fiancé. Let me help."
The word fiancé sounds strange in his mouth, formal and slightly absurd. I hand him my plate anyway. We move to the dish station together, falling into a simple rhythm. I rinse, he stacks.
"This is weirdly domestic," I say. "I'm not used to doing stuff like this with anyone."
"Terrifying, isn't it?"
"Deeply."
He reaches past me for a towel, arm brushing my shoulder. The contact is brief, meaningless, but I'm suddenly very aware of how close we're standing. How his cologne smells like cedar and something crisp I can't place. How when he's not performing lawyer he's almost likable.
I step back, creating distance.
"Thank you for coming by," I say. "And for the investigator."
"No need to thank me. It's part of the deal."
"Still."
He dries his hands, folds the towel neatly, and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"The food really was incredible," he murmurs. "You're talented, Mia. Genuinely talented."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not. I know what you're capable of. I'm just... impressed."
The word sits between us, heavier than it should be. I break eye contact first, busy myself wiping down the counter even though it's already clean.
"We should coordinate our next appearance," I say, steering back to safer territory. "Judith's column drops tomorrow. People will expect follow-up."
"Dinner somewhere visible. Thursday work for you?"
"I'll check my schedule."
"Let me know."
He heads for the door, pauses at the threshold, and turns back.
“I think Derek's scared,” he says. “That's good.”
"You keep saying that."
"Because I truly believe it."
I want to believe him. I want to trust that this arrangement is working, that Derek will back off, that in a year I'll sign divorce papers and walk away from this whole absurd situation intact.
But standing in my kitchen watching Ethan Evans leave, I'm not sure I believe anything anymore. Except maybe that the short rib really was perfectly balanced and that for fifteen minutes over a shared meal, the performance almost felt real.