10. Ethan
ETHAN
I'm still at the office, third scotch of the night sitting beside a deposition transcript I should've finished reading an hour ago.
The building is empty except for security and whoever's pulling an all-nighter three floors down.
I prefer working late. No phones, no interruptions, just me and whatever case I'm dismantling.
I click the email open.
"Preliminary report attached. You need to see this. Call me when you've read it."
The attachment is a PDF, thirty-three pages. I open it.
The first section covers Derek Wayne's movements over the past three weeks. Nothing I don't already know: the circling pattern around Sable, the late-night drive-bys past Mia's apartment, the florist orders routed through shell accounts. Standard stalker behavior, methodical as can be.
Page seven is where it changes.
"Prior Restraining Order – Chicago, Illinois."
I sit forward, set down the scotch.
According to Josiah's research, Derek had a restraining order filed against him in 2019 by a woman named Lauren Castellano.
The order was granted, lasted two years, then expired without renewal.
Josiah includes a scanned copy of the filing.
The language mirrors Mia's order almost exactly: no contact within five hundred feet, no communication direct or indirect, violations punishable by arrest.
I flip to the next page.
Lauren Castellano moved to Seattle six months after the order expired. No forwarding address on record. Her social media accounts went dark around the same time. Josiah notes that he reached out through three different channels and received no response.
"Subject appears to have deliberately severed all public ties. Common pattern in harassment cases where victim relocates to escape continued attention."
My jaw tightens.
Page twelve: a second woman. Rebecca Okonkwo, restraining order filed in 2017, also in Chicago. Same pattern—order granted, two-year duration, subject relocated after expiration. Phoenix, maybe, but Josiah couldn't confirm. Her trail goes cold in early 2018.
Two women, two restraining orders, two disappearances from public record.
And then there's the sealed file.
Josiah couldn't access the details, but he found the docket entry.
A criminal case filed against Derek Wayne in 2016, charges unknown, sealed by court order after some kind of plea agreement.
The case never went to trial. Whatever Derek did, his family's money and connections buried it deep enough that even a skilled investigator hit walls.
I read through the rest of the report twice. Josiah includes financial records showing Derek's pattern of large cash withdrawals around the time each woman relocated. Not proof of anything illegal, but suggestive. Money changing hands, maybe payments to make problems disappear.
By the time I finish reading, my scotch is warm and my hands are shaking.
I pick up my phone, dial Josiah.
He answers on the second ring. "You read it."
"All of it."
"And?"
"Derek Wayne is worse than I thought."
"Much worse," Josiah agrees. "Those women vanished. Scrubbed their online presence and left no trace. That takes effort. Or fear."
"Can you find them?"
"Maybe. But if they're hiding this thoroughly, they won't want to be found."
"Try anyway. I need to know what happened."
"Even if they won't talk?"
"Then I need to know why they won't talk."
Josiah is quiet for a moment. "Ethan, this is bigger than a stalking case. If Derek's done this before, if there's a pattern of escalation, you're looking at something criminal."
"I know."
"Does your client know?"
My client. He means Mia, though calling her that feels wrong now. She's my wife in four days. My fake wife, technically, but the distinction blurs more each time I think about it.
"Not yet," I say.
"You planning to tell her?"
"Yes. But not tonight."
"Why not?"
Because reading this file at midnight alone in my office left me cold in a way I haven't felt since law school, since the first time I realized that being right doesn't always mean winning.
Because Mia already carries enough weight and handing her thirty-three pages of documentation proving Derek Wayne is a serial predator feels like adding stones to a drowning woman.
"Because I need to figure out how to present this without terrifying her," I say instead.
"Good luck with that."
We hang up. I close the laptop, drain the last of my scotch, and sit in the dark office staring at nothing.
Derek Wayne doesn't stop. He escalates until his target disappears or something forces him to move on.
And right now Mia Holland is standing in his crosshairs with nothing but a piece of paper and a fake marriage protecting her.
I pull out my phone, scroll to her contact. My thumb hovers over the call button.
It's almost midnight. She's probably asleep, or closing down the restaurant, or doing literally anything that doesn't involve talking to me about the fact that her ex-boyfriend has done this before.
I should call anyway. Tell her what Josiah found, walk her through the implications, start building a strategy.
Instead I text. "You still up?"
The response comes faster than expected. "Yeah. Prep for tomorrow's service. What's going on?"
"Nothing urgent. Just checking in."
"You never just check in."
She's right. I don't. Every conversation we've had has been transactional, strategic, part of the arrangement. This is different and she knows it.
"How's prep going?" I type.
"Exhausting. Ramona sent the photos from Saturday. We look disgustingly domestic."
"I saw them. Very convincing."
"That's the problem. It's too convincing. We're doing too good of a job at this."
I lean back in my chair, phone in hand, and the tension in my shoulders relaxes. She's deflecting with humor, which means she's stressed but managing. The conversation feels normal, easy in a way our interactions usually aren't.
"Did I tell you the mushrooms you chopped ended up in a special?" she texts.
"You're kidding."
"Jamal sautéed them with thyme and white wine. Served them over grilled chicken. Sold out in an hour."
"So I'm basically a professional chef now."
"Absolutely not. You're a professional vegetable chopper. Maybe."
I smile at my phone like an idiot.
"How was court today?" she asks.
"Long. Settled a case that should've settled six months ago."
"Sounds riveting."
"It was exactly as boring as it sounds."
"And yet you're still at the office at midnight."
I glance around the empty space, the deposition transcript still unread beside my computer. She's not wrong.
"Paperwork," I type. "The glamorous life of corporate litigation."
"Thrilling. I'm braising short ribs and watching Chopped reruns."
"Which is objectively better than paperwork."
"Obviously."
The conversation continues for another twenty minutes.
Mia tells me about a dish she's testing for next month's menu, something with black garlic and miso that sounds complicated and incredible.
I tell her about the settlement conference, how opposing counsel tried to lowball us and walked away with significantly less than they wanted.
We're not talking about Derek or the wedding or anything related to our arrangement. Just... talking.
Eventually she texts, "I should sleep. Service starts in seven hours."
"Good luck tomorrow."
"Thanks. Try not to work all night."
"No promises."
"Ethan."
"Fine. I'll leave in thirty minutes."
"You're such a bad liar."
She's right again. I sit in my office for another hour after that, rereading Josiah's report, making notes in the margins. Building the case I'll need if Derek escalates. Planning three moves ahead because that's what I do.
But mostly thinking about Mia in her kitchen at midnight, braising short ribs and texting me like we're friends instead of two people trapped in a contractual arrangement.
Richard asked if I could walk away in a year.
Sitting here with Derek Wayne's file open on my laptop and Mia's last text still on my screen, I'm starting to think the answer is no, which is a problem I don't know how to solve.