11. Mia
MIA
City Hall smells like old paperwork and institutional cleaning products, which seems appropriate for a marriage that exists entirely on paper.
I stand in the marble lobby wearing a cream silk dress Olivia helped me pick out three days ago, something elegant and understated that photographs well without looking like I'm trying too hard.
My hair is loose, pinned back on one side with a gold clip.
Minimal makeup, with a gold cuff on my wrist. I look like someone getting married, which is the point even if the marriage itself is a performance.
Ethan waits near the security checkpoint in a navy suit that fits him like it was assembled on his body.
His tie is burgundy, perfectly knotted, and when he sees me crossing the lobby something changes in his expression.
Not quite a smile, more like recognition of something he wasn't expecting to feel.
"You look beautiful," he says when I reach him.
"You're supposed to say that. We're getting married."
"Doesn't make it less true."
The compliment lands softer than I want it to, settling somewhere beneath my ribs where I can't immediately dismiss it. I adjust the strap of my purse, look past him toward the elevators.
"Where's the witness?" I ask.
"Richard's meeting us upstairs. He volunteered when I mentioned we needed someone."
"Your mentor is witnessing our fake wedding."
"He finds the whole thing amusing, apparently."
"That makes one of us."
We take the elevator to the second floor. The marriage bureau is exactly as romantic as you'd expect a government office to be: bright lighting, plastic chairs, a clerk behind plexiglass who looks like she stopped caring about love sometime during the Reagan administration.
Richard Holt waits near the window, scrolling through his phone. He's wearing a charcoal suit, silver hair perfectly combed, and when he sees us approach he pockets the phone and smiles.
"Mia, good to see you again." He shakes my hand with the kind of firm grip that suggests he takes even social interactions seriously. "You look lovely."
"Thank you for being our witness."
"Wouldn't miss it. Ethan's first wedding, after all. Even if it's unconventional."
"That's one word for it," I mutter.
Ethan shoots me a look that might be a warning or amusement, hard to tell. The clerk calls our names and we approach the window. She slides paperwork through the opening, explains the process in a monotone that suggests she's given this speech ten thousand times.
"You'll need two witnesses for the ceremony itself. Do you have a second?"
I glance at Ethan. We didn't plan for this, assuming one witness would cover it.
"I can grab someone from the waiting area," the clerk offers, already looking past us toward the rows of plastic chairs filled with other couples waiting their turn.
"That works," Ethan says.
Five minutes later we're standing in a small ceremony room with beige walls and a single window overlooking the street.
Richard stands to my left, a middle-aged woman named Gloria who was waiting for her own ceremony stands to Ethan's right.
The officiant is a tired-looking man in his sixties who speaks in the same monotone as the clerk.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."
The ceremony blurs. I hear the words, respond at the appropriate moments, but mostly I'm aware of Ethan standing beside me in this depressing little room, his shoulder almost brushing mine.
When the officiant asks for rings I realize I forgot that part entirely, but Ethan smoothly produces two simple gold bands from his jacket pocket.
"When did you get these?" I whisper.
"Yesterday. Figured we'd need them, eventually."
He slides one onto my finger. It fits perfectly, which shouldn't surprise me but does anyway. The gold is warm against my skin, slightly heavier than I expected.
Then it's my turn. I take the second band, slide it onto his finger. His hand is steady, long fingers and clean nails and a pianist's grace. The ring looks right there, settled against his knuckle like it belongs.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant says. "You may kiss the bride."
Ethan looks at me. I look at him. This wasn't in our contract, the kissing part, though I suppose it's implied in the whole marriage situation.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. I don't pull away. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and then his lips touch mine.
The kiss is brief, chaste, exactly what you'd expect at a City Hall wedding. But his mouth is warm and his hand on my face is gentle and for three seconds I forget we're performing. Forget the contract and the arrangement and the fact that this marriage has an expiration date.
Then he pulls back and we're just two people standing in a beige room with a bored officiant and two witnesses who couldn't care less about our story.
"Congratulations," Richard says, clapping Ethan on the shoulder. Gloria offers me a smile that suggests she thinks this is all very sweet, which it definitely isn't.
We sign the paperwork. The clerk processes everything with bureaucratic efficiency that turns our fake marriage into a legal reality in under ten minutes. Then we're back in the elevator, married, holding a certificate that proves it.
"That was anticlimactic," I say.
"What were you expecting? Doves?"
"I don't know. Something more than beige walls and crap lighting."
"Welcome to municipal romance."
Richard declines to join us for lunch, citing a client meeting he can't reschedule, which leaves Ethan and me standing on the City Hall steps trying to figure out what comes next.
"Brunch?" Ethan suggests. "There's a place in Tribeca that does excellent eggs benedict."
"Are there going to be paparazzi?"
"Probably."
"Then let's get it over with."
We walk to the restaurant, a bistro-style place with sidewalk seating and a line of people waiting for tables. Ethan gives his name to the host, who immediately ushers us to a prime table near the window. Exactly the visibility we need, which makes my stomach twist.
The moment we sit down, I see them. Three photographers across the street, cameras already raised. They must have followed us from City Hall, or maybe Ethan's publicist tipped them off. Either way, we're being watched.
"Smile," Ethan murmurs, reaching across the table to take my hand. "We just got married. Try to look happy about it."
"I'm thrilled. Can't you tell?"
"You look like you're being held hostage."
"I feel like I'm being held hostage."
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, a gesture so casual and intimate that I almost forget it's for the cameras. Almost.
The waiter appears, recites specials I don't hear, takes our drink orders. I ask for coffee, black, and immediately regret not ordering something stronger. Ethan gets the same, then adds a mimosa for each of us because apparently day drinking is part of the newlywed performance.
"To us," he says when the drinks arrive, raising his mimosa glass.
"To one year and a clean divorce."
"You're so romantic."
"I learned from the best."
We clink glasses. The champagne is good, crisp and cold with just enough orange juice to make it feel celebratory. Across the street, the photographers are still shooting, lenses trained on our table like we're the most fascinating thing happening in Manhattan today.
"How long do we have to stay?" I ask.
"Long enough that they get good photos. Another thirty minutes, maybe."
Thirty minutes feels like an eternity. But when our food arrives—eggs benedict for me, smoked salmon and avocado toast for him—I realize I'm actually hungry. I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, too busy with prep and service to think about feeding myself.
The hollandaise is decent, not as good as mine but competent.
The poached eggs are cooked perfectly, yolks still runny when I cut into them.
I eat methodically, aware that every bite is being photographed, trying to look like a woman enjoying brunch with her new husband instead of someone fulfilling contractual obligations.
Ethan tells a story about a client who tried to bribe a witness with tickets to a Yankees game, and I find myself laughing despite the absurdity of our situation. He's funny when he's not being calculating, self-deprecating in a way that feels genuine rather than performed.
"Your turn," he says after the waiter refills our coffee. "Tell me something about you that's not in any interview or profile piece."
"Why?"
"Because we're married now and I should probably know more about you than your restaurant philosophy and your ex-boyfriend's restraining order."
I consider deflecting, but there's something in the way he's looking at me that makes me want to answer honestly.
"I wanted to be a painter," I say finally. "Before cooking. I spent most of high school in the art room, thought I'd go to RISD or Pratt, do the whole starving artist thing. My grandmother talked me out of it."
"The one who grew the lilies."
"Yes. She said art was beautiful, but cooking was necessary, and necessary things always find an audience. So I went to culinary school instead and found out she was right. Turns out I'm better at feeding people than making them think."
"You do both. Every plate you send out is art."
The compliment catches me off guard. Not because it's flattering, but because he says it like he believes it, like he's thought about it before and come to that conclusion independently.
"Thank you," I mumble.
"Your grandmother sounds wise."
"She was. She died two years ago."
"I'm sorry about that."
"Me too."
We sit in silence for a moment, the noise of the restaurant washing over us. Across the street, the photographers are still there, patient as hunters.
"What about you?" I ask. "What's something not in any profile piece?"