27. Mia
MIA
The first three days blur together in a haze of sleep and painkillers.
Ethan sets me up in his bedroom instead of the guest room, claims the couch is woefully insufficient. I don't argue. The bed is enormous and soft, and I sink into them like they're the only solid thing in a tilting world.
He brings me water at intervals I can't track, appears with toast I pick at without tasting, sits in the chair by the window working on his laptop while I drift in and out of consciousness.
Sometimes I wake screaming. The warehouse, the blindfold, Derek's voice circling me in the dark. Every time, Ethan's there within seconds, pulling me against his chest and murmuring steady reassurances until my breathing evens out.
"You're safe, Mia. He can't touch you anymore."
I believe him more each time he says it.
On the fourth morning I wake clearheaded for the first time since the hospital. Sunlight streams through the windows, warming the entire space. The clock reads 10:47, which means I slept through the entire night without waking once.
Progress.
Ethan's not in the chair. I find him in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in the clipped tones he uses for legal business.
"No, Richard. I'm not coming in today. Mia needs me here." A pause. "I don't care about the deposition. Reschedule it." Another pause, longer. "Then they can find another attorney. My wife nearly died four days ago. That takes priority over billable hours."
The word wife lands differently now. Real instead of strategic, chosen instead of arranged.
He notices me in the doorway, expression softening immediately. "I have to go. We'll discuss this later."
The call ends. He sets the phone down, crosses to me in three strides.
"You should be in bed."
"I've been in bed for four days. I'm going to forget how to stand if I don't move around."
His hands find my shoulders, steadying me when I sway slightly. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck. But better than yesterday."
"That's something." He guides me to the kitchen island, helps me onto a stool. "Coffee?"
"Please."
He moves through the motions as I watch him work. The precise way he measures grounds, the angle he prefers for pouring water. Small details I've memorized without trying over the past weeks.
The mug he sets in front of me is perfect. Strong enough to taste through the fog in my head, sweetened exactly how I like it even though I never told him the ratio.
"You've been paying attention," I say.
"Of course I have." He leans against the counter opposite me, nursing his own cup. "How's the pain today?"
"Manageable. The cut on my throat itches more than it hurts."
"That means it's healing."
I touch the bandage lightly, feel the ridge of stitches beneath sterile gauze. Seven stitches total, the ER doctor said. Deep enough to need closing, shallow enough that I was lucky.
I don't feel lucky. I feel like I survived something that should have killed me.
"Olivia's been calling," Ethan says, pulling me from the spiral. "She wants to visit, but I told her you needed rest first. She sent these."
He gestures to the counter where an enormous bouquet of sunflowers sits in a crystal vase, bright and cheerful against the penthouse's modern aesthetic. A card leans against the base: "Thank God you're alright — Olivia and Leo."
"That's very sweet," I murmur.
"Your chefs at Sable have been sending things too. Jamal dropped off a care package yesterday. Homemade soup, bread, some kind of chocolate situation that looked dangerous. 70% cocoa."
"He bakes when he's stressed."
"Then he must have been very stressed. There's enough dessert in the fridge to feed an army."
"Have you talked to Detective Lee?" I ask.
"Every day. Derek's being held without bail pending trial. The DA's office is prosecuting personally given the severity of charges."
"What kind of sentence are we looking at?"
"He's facing multiple counts. Kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, criminal threatening, violation of a restraining order. If convicted on all charges, sentencing guidelines suggest twenty-five to thirty years."
The number should feel satisfying. Justice, finally, after two years of Derek circling my life like a predator.
Instead it just feels hollow.
"You don't look relieved," Ethan observes.
"I am. I just..." I struggle to articulate the thing sitting heavy on my shoulders. "Thirty years doesn't erase what he did. It doesn't give me back the apartment I can't live in anymore, or the sense of safety I lost. It just means he's locked away while I'm still dealing with the aftermath."
"That's fair." He circles the island, slides onto the stool beside me. "Recovery isn't linear. Some days you'll feel strong, others you'll feel like you're drowning. Both are normal."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Observation, mostly. I've worked enough trauma cases to recognize the pattern."
"So what do I do? Just wait for the drowning days to get less frequent?"
"You take it one day at a time. You let people who care about you help instead of trying to handle everything alone. And you remember that surviving doesn't require you to be fine immediately."
I smile despite everything. "I should check on the restaurant."
"Mia—"
"I know, I know. Rest and recovery. But Sable's been running without me for almost a week. I need to at least make sure everything's still standing."
"The restaurant's fine. Jamal's been sending me daily updates without you asking. Last night's service sold out, the reviews are still excellent, and your staff is handling everything."
"Jamal's been updating you?"
"He called the first night you were here asking if you were okay. I gave him my number so he could check in without bothering you." Ethan's expression turns wry. "Turns out your sous chef is very thorough about operational details."
"He learned from the best."
"He also threatened to kill me if anything happened to you, which I appreciated."
The image of Jamal threatening Ethan makes me laugh properly for the first time in days. It hurts my bruised ribs but feels necessary, like muscles remembering how to work.
"I'm glad you two are bonding," I say.
"We're not bonding. We're maintaining professional communication about your restaurant's operations."
"Sure. That's definitely what's happening."
He rolls his eyes, stands to refill both our coffees. When he returns, his expression has shifted into something more serious.
"Also… Derek's lawyer reached out yesterday," he says carefully. "They want to discuss a plea deal."
My stomach drops. "What kind of plea deal?"
"Derek pleads guilty to lesser charges in exchange for a reduced sentence. Fifteen years with parole eligibility after ten."
"Half of what he deserves."
"The DA thinks it's worth considering. It guarantees conviction without the risk of trial, which means you wouldn't have to testify."
The prospect of not sitting across from Derek in a courtroom while he stares at me and his lawyers try to dismantle my credibility is tempting in ways I'm not proud of. But fifteen years instead of thirty feels like letting him win.
"What do you think I should do?" I ask.
"That's not my decision. It's yours."
"I'm asking for your opinion, Ethan. As my lawyer and... everything else."
He sets down his mug, turns to face me fully. "As your lawyer, I'd say the plea deal is practical. It saves you the trauma of trial, guarantees Derek goes to prison, and lets you move forward faster."
"And as everything else?"
His jaw works. "As everything else, I want to watch him get maximum sentencing for every second of terror he put you through. I want him in prison until he's old and broken and has forgotten what sunlight feels like."
The vehemence in his voice makes something warm bloom within me.
"But," he continues, voice softening just slightly, "that's about my anger, not your healing. So the question isn't what I want. It's what you need to move on with your life."
I sit with that for a long moment, turning the options over in my mind like ingredients I'm trying to balance.
Trial means facing Derek again, reliving everything in front of strangers who will judge whether I'm credible, whether I'm sympathetic enough or if I somehow invited this.
The plea deal means it ends faster, cleaner.
No cross-examination designed to humiliate me into silence.
But fifteen years instead of thirty still feels like compromise I shouldn't have to make.
"I need to think about it," I say finally.
"Take your time." His tone is even, unhurried. "The DA won't move forward without your approval."
I nod, setting my own mug down on the counter.
Then I cross the space between us, closing the distance in two steps, and wrap my arms around him.
He goes still for half a second before his arms come up around me, solid and steady.
I press my face against his chest, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with coffee.
He presses a kiss to my forehead and I let out a deep breath.
"Thank you for this, Ethan," I murmur against the fabric of his shirt. "I love you."
He stiffens under me. Just slightly, just enough that I notice. Then his hand starts to trail across my back languidly, like he's testing the words in his head before he lets them out.
"I love you, too."