22. Ethan
ETHAN
The week after Mia moves into the penthouse, I'm in full litigation mode.
Kenley Renfroe sits across from me in my office, case files spread across the desk like evidence of my failure. He's a good prosecutor, methodical and thorough, which makes his next words land even harder.
"There's not enough here for an indictment," he says, tapping the folder with one finger. "There's no physical evidence linking any of this to Derek."
I lean back in my chair, jaw working. "He destroyed her home, Kenley. Slashed her furniture, ripped up her grandmother's quilt, left a black rose like a calling card. You're telling me that's not enough?"
"I'm telling you we can't prove he did it. His alibi puts him at a business dinner in Midtown when the break-in occurred. Three witnesses, all credible, all willing to testify."
"Witnesses he probably paid."
"Maybe. But we can't prove that either." Kenley closes the folder, meets my eyes.
"Look, I know this isn't what you want to hear.
The pattern's there, the escalation is clear, but pattern isn't evidence.
We need something concrete. A confession, physical evidence, a witness who saw him at the scene. "
"And if we can't get that?"
"Then we keep building. Wait for him to make a mistake."
"Wait." The word tastes bitter. "You want Mia to wait while she can't sleep in her own apartment because he violated it."
Kenley's expression softens slightly. "I know this is personal for you?—"
"It's not personal. It's about protecting my client."
"Ethan. Come on. Everyone in the DA's office knows about your marriage. And everyone can see this stopped being just a case weeks ago."
The observation makes my teeth clench. "My relationship with Mia doesn't change the facts. Derek Wayne is dangerous, he's escalating, and the system is failing her."
"The system is doing exactly what it's designed to do. Protecting the accused until there's sufficient evidence to prosecute."
"Even when the accused is a wealthy stalker with a history of making women disappear?"
"Especially then. Because if we go forward without an airtight case, he walks. And next time it'll be even harder to touch him." Kenley stands, collects his files. "Keep gathering evidence. Get me something I can actually use. Until then, my hands are tied."
He leaves. I sit alone in my office staring at the closed door while fury builds inside me.
Insufficient evidence. Build the case. Wait for him to make a mistake.
The legal system I've spent years mastering is suddenly a cage, and I can't find the exit.
I grab my coat, tell my assistant I'm working remotely for the rest of the day, and head out before anyone can stop me.
The penthouse is quiet when I arrive at three PM. Mia should still be at Sable for the dinner prep, which means I have the space to myself for a few hours.
I pour bourbon, stand at the windows overlooking the city, and try to think strategically instead of emotionally.
Derek's alibi for the break-in is solid but not unbreakable. Three witnesses placing him at a restaurant while Mia's apartment was being destroyed. If I can find inconsistencies in their statements, prove they're lying or mistaken about timing, that creates reasonable doubt.
I pull out my laptop, start making notes.
The restaurant where Derek claims he was dining is in Midtown.
Mia's apartment is in Harlem. Travel time between the two is thirty minutes, maybe less with light traffic.
If the witnesses are wrong about when he left, even by twenty minutes, that opens a window.
My phone rings. Richard Holt's name on the screen.
I consider not answering, but avoiding the managing partner of my firm is career suicide.
"Richard."
"Ethan. We need to talk about your caseload."
"What about it?"
"You've been neglecting your existing clients to focus on this Derek Wayne situation. Claire mentioned you've missed three meetings this week, and opposing counsel is complaining about delayed responses to discovery requests."
The criticism is fair, which makes it sting more. "I'll catch up. Everything's under control."
"Is it? You're burning professional capital chasing a case that isn't even yours officially."
"Mia's my wife. Her case is my case."
"Your fake wife," Richard corrects quietly. "Remember? The arrangement you entered into to rehabilitate your image? Except somewhere along the way you seem to have forgotten it's an arrangement."
I drain the bourbon, pour another. "What do you want me to say, Richard?"
"I want you to remember why you're good at what you do. You're brilliant because you don't let emotion override judgment. You see angles other people miss because you stay detached. But this situation with Mia Holland is making you sloppy."
"I'm handling it."
"You're obsessing over it." He pauses. "Take a step back. Bring in another attorney to handle the Wayne case. Let someone with objectivity manage it while you focus on billable work."
The suggestion makes my grip tighten on the glass. "No."
"Ethan—"
"I said no. Mia's safety isn't something I'm delegating to another attorney who doesn't understand the full scope of what Derek's capable of."
"Then at least bring someone in to support you. Share the workload. Because right now you're headed for burnout, and that helps no one."
The line goes dead. I set down my phone, refill my glass again even though day-drinking is a terrible idea.
Richard's right. About all of it. I am obsessing, losing objectivity, making decisions based on emotion instead of strategy. Everything I've spent years avoiding is happening in real time, and I can't seem to stop it.
The door opens at six. Mia walks in carrying her work bag, chef's coat draped over one arm. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
"You're home early," she says, dropping her bag by the door.
"Needed to think."
"About the case?"
"Among other things."
She crosses to the kitchen, pours herself water. I watch her move through my space with increasing familiarity, the way she knows which cabinet holds the glasses, how she automatically checks the mail I left on the counter.
She's been here a week. Already it feels like longer, like she belongs in ways I can't articulate.
"Kenley said there's not enough for an indictment," I say finally. "Derek's alibi is solid. The physical evidence doesn't link him directly to the break-in. Without something concrete, the DA won't move forward."
"So I just... what? Stay locked in your penthouse indefinitely? Let him control my entire life while we wait for the legal system to catch up?"
"You're not locked in. You can go wherever you want."
"Can I, though? Because every time I mention going back to my apartment to salvage what's left, you tell me it's not safe. When I want to work a full shift at Sable instead of leaving early, you suggest I should be cautious. You're making decisions about my life without asking me."
The accusation lands like a slap. "I'm trying to keep you safe."
"By controlling my movements? By deciding what's too risky for me to handle?" She crosses her arms. "Sound familiar?"
The comparison to Derek makes my vision narrow. "That's not fair."
"Derek made all my decisions for me. What I wore, who I saw, where I went. He called it protection too."
"I'm nothing like him."
"Then stop acting like you know what's best for me better than I do."
The kitchen falls silent. She's breathing hard and I'm gripping the counter hard enough that my knuckles are white.
"I'm not trying to control you," I point out. "I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I'm not a child, Ethan. I'm a grown woman who runs her own restaurant and managed to survive two years of Derek's harassment before you showed up. I don't need you making decisions for me."
"You hired me specifically to handle the legal strategy against Derek."
"Legal strategy, yes. Not my entire life."
"Your life and the legal strategy are connected right now. Every choice you make affects your safety, which affects the case."
"So I should just stop living? Stop working? Stop existing outside this building until you decide it's safe?" She shakes her head. "I can't do that. Sable is everything to me. If I abandon it now, Derek wins. He gets exactly what he wants, which is me retreating into nothing."
"That's not what I'm suggesting?—"
"Then what are you suggesting? You're asking me to put my life on hold indefinitely while you build a case that might never be strong enough."
The words hit harder because they're accurate. I am asking her to wait, to trust me, to sacrifice pieces of her life for the promise of eventual safety.
"I'm doing the best I can," I say.
"I know. But your best means I'm sitting here at six PM on a Tuesday when I should be in my kitchen prepping for dinner service. Your best means I left early because you asked me to."
"Mia—"
"No. You listen." She steps closer, eyes blazing.
"I appreciate everything you've done. The legal work, letting me stay here, showing up when I called.
But I'm not going to become a prisoner in your penthouse while we wait for Derek to make a mistake.
I need to work. I need my kitchen. I need to feel like myself instead of this scared version who can't function without your permission. "
"I never said you needed my permission."
"You didn't have to say it. It's in every suggestion you make, every time you tell me to be careful or leave early or avoid being alone. You're wrapping it in concern but the effect is the same. You're making me smaller."
The accusation breaks my heart open. Because she's right. I am making decisions for her, reacting from fear instead of strategy, letting my feelings override the objectivity that made me good at my job.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit quietly. "How to protect you without controlling you."
Her expression softens slightly. "I don't need you to have all the answers, Ethan. I just need you to stop treating me like I'm made of glass."
"You're not made of glass. You're the strongest person I know. But that doesn't mean you're not in danger."
"I know I'm in danger. I've known it for two years. But danger doesn't mean I stop living."
We stand there in the kitchen, two stubborn people who've built careers on being right, neither willing to concede ground even though we're both saying versions of the same thing.
Finally, Mia sighs and heads toward the guest room.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"To take a shower and cool off before I say something I regret."
She disappears down the hall. The door closes with a soft click that sounds louder than a slam.
I pour another bourbon and return to the windows.
Richard was right. I'm losing objectivity. Making emotional decisions disguised as legal strategy. Trying to protect Mia by controlling her movements, which is exactly what Derek did.
I'm failing her. The legal system is failing her. And Derek Wayne is still out there, circling closer, waiting for his next opportunity to destroy what she's built.