6. Ethan
ETHAN
The cease-and-desist letter takes me forty minutes to draft and three revisions to perfect.
I write it at my desk with morning light streaming through the windows, my third coffee of the day going cold beside the keyboard. The language needs ?threatening enough to make Derek Wayne understand I'm serious and legally airtight enough that he can't dismiss it as bluster.
"Dear Mr. Wayne,
I represent Ms. Mia Holland in all matters related to your continued harassment and violation of the restraining order issued by the New York County Supreme Court on March 14, 2023.
Your presence at Sable Restaurant on the evening of May 3rd constitutes a clear violation of said order, which explicitly prohibits contact within five hundred feet of Ms. Holland or any property she owns or operates.
The black rose left at the hostess stand serves as direct evidence of your intentional disregard for court-mandated boundaries.
This letter serves as formal notice: any further contact, direct or indirect, will result in immediate legal action including but not limited to criminal charges for order violation, civil suit for emotional distress, and petition for extended protective measures.
Ms. Holland is no longer without representation. Any attempt to approach, contact, surveil, or intimidate her will be met with the full force of legal recourse available.
You have been warned."
I sign it, scan it,and attach it to an email. Then I pull up Derek Wayne's professional contact information and hit send.
The letter lands in his inbox at nine forty-seven AM.
By ten fifteen I've assigned Josiah Emmanuel, a private investigator I've used on three previous cases, to start building a file. Josiah is expensive, discreet, and has a gift for finding patterns in places most people don't think to look.
"What am I looking for?" he asks over the phone.
"Movement patterns. Where he goes, who he sees, whether he's still circling Mia Holland's orbit."
"The restaurateur?"
"Yes."
"And she's your client?"
"She's my fiancée."
Silence. Then Josiah laughs. "You're so full of shit it's falling out your mouth."
"I'm completely serious."
"Since when?"
"Since recently. Can you do the job or not?"
"I can do it. But if this is some kind of publicity stunt?—"
"It's not." The lie comes easily. "Just get me documentation. Timestamps, locations, photographs if possible. I need a case I can take to a judge if he escalates."
"Understood."
I hang up, lean back in my chair. Two moves made before lunch. Derek Wayne now knows I'm watching. And if he's smart, he'll back off.
If he's not, we'll have the evidence to bury him.
The call comes three days later while I'm in a deposition.
My phone buzzes against the table. I glance down, see Mia's name on the screen, and almost ignore it. We're in hour two of questioning a witness in a securities fraud case and I can't afford the distraction.
Then it buzzes again. And again.
I excuse myself, step into the hallway.
"What's wrong?"
"He sent flowers." Her voice is strained. "Two dozen white lilies. They were waiting outside my apartment when I got home. These used to be my favorite type of flowers."
My hand tightens around the phone. "When?"
"Twenty minutes ago."
"You're still there?"
"Yes."
"Is there a card?"
"No card. Just the lilies."
I close my eyes, run through the implications. No card means no direct evidence linking Derek to the delivery. But he sent white lilies, that specific flower in that specific quantity, after my cease-and-desist letter hit his desk three days ago. This is escalation disguised as romance.
"How does he know white lilies are your favorite?" I ask.
"I never told him directly, but I…" She stops.
"Mia?"
"I… I mentioned it once when we were still together. Derek and I. That my grandmother used to grow them in her garden and that I loved them."
The detail lands like a fist to the sternum. This isn't random. Derek's reminding her that he pays attention, that he remembers intimate details, that no amount of legal posturing changes the fact that he knows her.
"Where are the flowers now?" I ask.
"Still outside my door. I didn't touch them."
"Good. Don't. I'm sending Josiah to photograph everything. Location, condition, delivery packaging if there is any."
"And then what?"
"Then we file a motion to extend the restraining order and include a provision for third-party delivery violations."
"Will that work?"
"It'll put more pressure on him. Make it harder for him to hide behind proxies."
She's quiet for a moment. When she speaks again her voice has changed, gone sharper and more brittle.
"You said this would work. That marrying you would make him back off."
"It will."
"He's escalating, Ethan. We're three days into this arrangement and he's already pushing boundaries."
"Because he's testing. Seeing if I'm serious."
"And are you?"
The question catches me off guard. I lean against the wall, watch a paralegal hurry past with an armful of file folders.
"Yes," I affirm. "Of course I'm serious."
"Then make him stop."
"I will."
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
I stand in the hallway for another thirty seconds, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling something cold settle over my whole body.
The way her voice fractured when she said he's escalating, the detail about her grandmother's garden, the lilies waiting outside her door like a threat wrapped in cellophane and ribbon… this has become personal.
I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to the deposition.
The gala is black-tie, held at the Plaza, benefiting some children's literacy nonprofit I've donated to before but never attended. My publicist arranged our appearance two weeks ago, back when this arrangement was still theoretical.
Now it's happening.
I arrive early, check my reflection in the lobby bathroom mirror. Navy tuxedo, crisp white shirt, bow tie I tied myself because clip-ons are for amateurs. Hair styled, jaw clean-shaven. I look exactly like what I am: a man who knows how to wear wealth without flaunting it.
Mia arrives ten minutes later.
I see her before she sees me. She's crossing the lobby in a deep emerald gown that fits like it was designed for her body specifically.
The neckline is high, almost severe, but the back is open to her waist. Her hair is pinned up in something sculptural, exposing the long line of her neck.
Gold cuff on her left wrist, no other jewelry.
She looks incredible.
I intercept her near the coat check. She sees me and her expression shifts, apprehension flickering across her face before she smooths it away.
"You're late," I say.
"Sorry. Dinner service ran long."
"Ready for this?"
"No, not at all."
"Good. Neither am I."
That gets a small smile. She adjusts the cuff on her wrist, glances toward the ballroom doors.
"Remind me why we're doing this," she says.
"Because sixty people with cameras are inside that room and we need them to believe we're madly in love."
"Madly in love." She clicks her tongue. "Right."
I offer my arm. She looks at it for a beat too long, then loops hers through mine.
"Don't let go," I murmur as we walk. "And try to look like you don't hate me."
"I'll do my best."
We enter the ballroom together.
The space is massive, chandeliers dripping crystal, tables dressed in ivory and gold. A string quartet plays near the stage. Waiters circulate with champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres and pristine white smiles.
Heads turn as we cross the room. I feel the attention shift, hear the whispers start. That's Ethan Evans. Who's the woman?
Mia's grip on my arm tightens slightly, but her expression doesn't change. She's good at this, I realize. The performance, the presentation. She's been doing it her whole career.
"Smile," I whisper.
"I am smiling."
"Wider."
"I'll punch you."
"Save it for the honeymoon."
That startles a laugh out of her, small yet genuine.
We make it to our table. I pull out her chair, wait until she's seated before taking my own. Within seconds we're approached by a society columnist I recognize from the Times, a woman named Judith Carr who's made a career out of cataloging Manhattan's elite.
"Ethan Evans," she says, extending a perfectly manicured hand. "I didn't expect to see you here."
I shake her hand. "Judith. Good to see you."
"And who's this?"
"Mia Holland. She owns Sable Restaurant in Harlem."
Judith's eyes sharpen with interest. She turns to Mia, offering the same polished smile she probably gives everyone.
"I've heard wonderful things about your restaurant. How did you two meet?"
Mia glances at me. We rehearsed this in the car, three minutes of coaching that she mostly ignored. In through one ear, out the other.
"Through a mutual friend," she says smoothly. "At an industry mixer last month."
"Love at first sight?"
"Something like that."
Judith's smile widens. She's already composing the column in her head, I can tell. "Well, this is certainly a pairing I didn't see coming. May I?"
She gestures with her phone. A photo request.
I look at Mia. She nods, barely perceptible.
"Of course," I say.
Judith steps back, raises her phone. I shift closer to Mia, rest my hand on the back of her chair. She tilts toward me slightly, lets her shoulder brush mine. We're not touching beyond that but the proximity sells intimacy.
The camera clicks. Once, twice, three times.
"Perfect," Judith says. "This'll make a lovely piece."
She drifts away, already typing into her phone.
Mia exhales slowly. "That was somewhat smooth."
"First one always is."
"How reassuring," she says, scratching at her neck.
A waiter appears with champagne. I take two flutes, hand one to Mia. She accepts it, sips carefully.
"You're good at this," I point out.
"At what?"
"Performing."
Her eyes cut to mine. "So are you."
"Occupational hazard."
"For both of us."
The string quartet shifts into something slower, more romantic. Around us, couples begin moving toward the dance floor. Mia watches them, her expression unreadable.
"Do we have to dance?" she asks, holding back a grimace.
"Most likely."
"I'm not very good at it."
"Neither am I."
"Somehow I doubt that."
I stand, offer my hand. "One dance. Then we can leave."
She looks at my hand like it might bite her. Then she sets down her champagne and takes it.
Her palm is warm against mine. I lead her to the dance floor, find a spot near the edge where we're visible but not central. When I settle my hand on her waist, she goes very still.
"Relax," I murmur.
"I'm relaxed."
"You're holding your breath."
She exhales, annoyed. "Better?"
"Much better. Stop looking like you've got stones up your ass."
Mia snorts. "You're such a charmer, Evans."
We move together. She's stiff at first, her body held at a careful distance, but after a few beats she adjusts. She lets me lead, and follows the rhythm. She wasn't lying—she's not a natural dancer. But she's graceful in the way all chefs are, aware of her body in space.
"This is absurd," she says quietly. "People are staring at us, I can feel it."
"That's the point."
"I hate it."
"I know."
Her eyes meet mine. They're dark, guarded, but there's something else underneath. Exhaustion, maybe. Or the weight of maintaining this performance while Derek Wayne sends lilies to her door.
"He's not going to stop, you know," she says.
"He will."
"You don't know that."
"I do. Men like Derek thrive on control. The moment they realize they've lost it, they move on."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then I make his life so legally complicated he has no choice but to flee the country."
She searches my face, looking for the lie. I hold her gaze, let her see whatever she needs to see.
"Why do you care?" she asks.
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You're getting your good press. The photos are already out there. Why do you care if Derek actually stops?"
Because the sound of her voice when she called about the lilies did something I didn't expect.
"Mia, we made a deal," I say instead. "And I keep my deals."
She doesn't look convinced. But she doesn't push.
The song ends. We separate, her hand slipping from mine. Around us couples drift back to their tables. Mia adjusts her cuff, smooths the front of her gown.
"Can we leave now?" she asks.
"Yes."
We collect our things, make polite goodbyes to the few people who intercept us on the way out. In the lobby I call for my car. We wait in silence, standing close enough to look like a couple, far enough apart that it doesn't feel real.
The car arrives. I open her door, wait until she's inside before circling to my side.
"That went well," I say as we pull into traffic.
"Did it?"
"Judith will run the photo tomorrow. By Monday morning, half of Manhattan will know we're together."
"Lucky us."
I glance at her. She's looking out the window, her profile sharp against the city lights streaming past.
"Mia."
"What?"
"It's going to work."
She turns, meets my eyes. "Stop saying that."
"Why?"
"Because you sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
She's right. I am.
But I don't say that. Just drive her home through the city, both of us quiet, the photo already circulating online. And somewhere out there, Derek Wayne is probably seeing it.