12. Ethan
ETHAN
The benefit concert is one of those events where Manhattan's elite gather to feel good about writing checks, held at Lincoln Center with ticket prices that could fund a small restaurant for a month.
Classical music for childhood literacy, or something equally noble and forgettable.
My publicist secured us seats in the orchestra section, visible enough to matter without being ostentatious.
Mia meets me in the lobby wearing deep burgundy, a dress with clean lines and a neckline that makes me forget how to form coherent sentences for approximately three seconds.
Her hair is down tonight, loose waves framing her face, and when she walks toward me every head in the vicinity turns to track her movement.
"You're staring," she says when she reaches me.
"You look incredible."
"That's the third time you've said that in as many days."
"I know, and I’ll keep saying it.”
She adjusts the strap of her clutch, glances past me toward the concert hall entrance where people are filtering through the doors in slow-moving clusters of tuxedos and evening gowns. Her jaw is tight, shoulders held with the kind of tension that suggests she'd rather be anywhere else.
"What's wrong?" I ask gently.
"Nothing."
"Mia."
"I said nothing."
I offer my arm. She takes it after a beat too long, her hand settling into the crook of my elbow tensely that feels more like obligation than comfort.
We move through the crowd toward our seats.
People notice us, conversations pausing mid-sentence as we pass, eyes tracking our movement with a curiosity reserved for minor celebrities or particularly interesting gossip.
The photos from our wedding ran in three different publications this week, each one positioning us as Manhattan's most unexpected power couple.
The narrative is working exactly as designed.
Which makes Mia's stiffness even more noticeable.
"You need to relax," I murmur as we navigate through the lobby. "You look like you're walking to your execution."
"I'm fine."
"You're holding your breath again."
She exhales sharply through her nose. "Better?"
"Marginally."
We reach our seats, fifth row center, close enough to see the musicians' faces when they take the stage but far enough back that we're not distractingly visible.
Mia sits with the kind of careful posture that suggests she's counting down minutes until this is over.
I settle beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush when I adjust my program.
The lights dim. The orchestra files onto the stage to polite applause.
I should be watching the musicians, or at least pretending to care about whatever Vivaldi piece they're about to massacre, but instead I'm watching Mia out of my peripheral vision.
The way her hands rest in her lap, fingers laced together tightly enough that her skin is taut over her knuckles.
The way she keeps glancing toward the exits like she's mapping escape routes.
Something happened. Something she hasn't told me.
The concert begins. Violins swell, cellos anchor the melody, and around us the audience settles into that brand of attentive silence wealthy people perform when they want to seem cultured.
Mia doesn't move, barely seems to breathe, her entire body held in a state of controlled tension that makes me want to drag her out of here and demand answers.
But I don't. I sit beside my fake wife and listen to music I don't particularly care about and try to figure out what changed between yesterday's phone call where she teased me about working too late and tonight's version of her who can barely look at me.
Intermission arrives after forty minutes of orchestral performance that I retain absolutely nothing from. The lights come up and people immediately start moving, heading for the lobby bar or the restrooms or just stretching their legs after sitting still for too long.
"Do you want a drink?" I ask Mia.
"Sure."
"What kind?"
"Whatever you're having."
I head to the bar, order two glasses of wine from the bartender who's already sweating under the crush of intermission demand.
While I wait I scan the crowd, looking for familiar faces.
Mostly corporate types, a few judges I recognize from various cases, some society figures whose names I should probably know but don't.
And then I see them.
Three photographers clustered near the main entrance, cameras hanging around their necks, clearly here for exactly the reason Mia and I are here. To capture moments, create narratives, feed the machine that turns private lives into public consumption.
One of them spots me. His expression sharpens with recognition and he says something to his colleagues that makes all three turn in my direction. They don't approach immediately, probably waiting to see if I'm with someone worth photographing, but the attention is already locked on.
I collect the wine glasses and return to Mia. She's still in her seat, staring at the program like it contains secrets of the universe.
"Photographers," I note, handing her a glass. "By the entrance."
She looks up, follows my gaze, sees them. Something flickers across her face, gone too quickly to identify.
"How many?" she asks.
"Three that I can see. Probably more outside."
"Great."
"We can leave if you want."
"No. We're here for a reason. Let's just get through it."
The second half of the concert is Beethoven, something dramatic and overwrought that matches the tension radiating off Mia in waves.
I stop trying to watch the performance and just focus on her, cataloging every small tell.
The way she shifts in her seat every few minutes like she can't get comfortable.
Her hand keeps drifting to the gold cuff on her wrist, turning it absently.
She won't meet my eyes when I glance over.
By the time the final movement crescendos into its triumphant conclusion, I've made a decision.
The audience rises for a standing ovation that feels more obligatory than earned.
We stand with them, applauding while the conductor takes his bows and the orchestra smiles like they've just performed the most important music of their careers.
Then the lights come up fully and people start filtering toward the exits, a slow-moving mass of evening wear and self-satisfied cultural consumption.
We move with the crowd. Mia walks slightly ahead of me, putting distance between us that feels deliberate. I catch up, rest my hand at the small of her back in a gesture that looks affectionate but is actually just keeping us together as we navigate through the press of bodies.
The photographers are waiting in the lobby.
I see them before they see us, positioned strategically near the main doors where everyone has to pass. They're scanning the crowd, cameras ready, hunting for whatever image will sell tomorrow's gossip cycle.
Then one of them spots us.
His camera comes up immediately. The other two follow suit, moving as a unit, closing the distance between us with predatory efficiency. People around us notice, step back to give them room, creating a small clearing in the middle of the lobby.
"Mr. Evans," one of them calls out. Tall guy, early thirties, wearing jeans and a photographer's vest covered in pockets. His camera is already firing, rapid shutter clicks that sound like aggressive punctuation. "How does it feel to be married?"
I keep walking, hand still at Mia's back. "No comment."
"Is it true you married Mrs. Evans to rehabilitate your public image after the Ripley case?"
"No comment."
"Ms. Holland, how do you feel about being used as a PR strategy?"
Mia's spine goes rigid beneath my palm. I feel the moment she decides to stop walking, to turn and face them, and I'm already moving to intercept when she speaks.
"I'm not being used for anything," she says, her voice carrying across the lobby with perfect clarity. "I'm standing here with my husband at a benefit concert. If that's PR, then every couple here is guilty of the same thing."
The tall photographer grins like she's just given him exactly what he wanted. His camera keeps firing, capturing every angle of her face.
"But you have to admit the timing is convenient," he presses. "Mr. Evans defends an abuser, takes heat in the press, suddenly he's married to a successful chef with a compelling story. It looks calculated."
"Everything looks calculated to people who can't imagine genuine feeling," Mia says sharply, like a knife finding its mark. "Maybe that says more about you than about us."
Someone in the crowd laughs. Not mocking, genuinely amused. The photographer's grin falters slightly.
"So you're saying this is real," he tries again. "The marriage, the relationship, all of it."
"I'm saying it's none of your business what's real and what isn't. We're here, we're together, and we're leaving now. Find someone else to harass."
She turns and starts walking toward the exit. I'm still processing what just happened when the photographer shifts his attention to me, camera swinging up for another round of shots.
"Mr. Evans, what about the Tobias Ripley case? Do you regret defending him?"
The question is designed to provoke. Standard paparazzi tactic, throw accusations until something sticks, capture the moment someone loses composure.
I've dealt with this before, know how to deflect or ignore, but something about the way he's looking at me combined with Mia's retreating form makes my jaw tighten.
"Do you regret being terrible at your job?" I ask conversationally. "Because I'd argue stalking people outside concert halls is just harassment with a press pass."
His expression darkens. "I'm doing my job."
"So was I. Difference is mine actually requires skill."
The camera comes up again. Flash fires directly in my face, bright enough that I see spots. The other two photographers move closer, sensing blood in the water, their shutters clicking in rapid succession.
"Mr. Evans, did you knowingly defend a guilty man?"