11. Mia #2
Ethan considers this, swirling the last of his mimosa in the glass. "I wanted to be a public defender. Straight out of law school, that was the plan. Represent people who couldn't afford adequate representation, actually do some good instead of just winning cases."
"What changed?"
"Debt. Law school loans, family obligations, the realization that idealism doesn't pay rent in Manhattan. So I went corporate, built a reputation, told myself I'd circle back to the meaningful work eventually."
"But you haven't."
"No. I haven't."
There's something in his voice, regret maybe, or the awareness of choices made and roads not taken. I recognize it because I carry the same weight; different circumstances but the same feeling of having traded one version of yourself for another.
"Maybe you still can do that one day," I say.
"Maybe. If I don't get fired first."
That startles a laugh out of me. "You're not getting fired. Richard loves you."
"Richard tolerates me, actually. He was ready to kick me to the curb the moment I became a pariah in the press."
"He showed up to witness our wedding."
"Because he finds the whole thing entertaining."
"Or because he cares about you and wants to make sure you're not completely self-destructing."
"When did you get so insightful?" he asks.
"I've always been insightful. You just weren't paying attention."
"I'm paying attention now."
Our eyes meet across the table and for a moment the performance falls away. No cameras, no contract, just two people sitting in a restaurant trying to figure out what they've gotten themselves into.
Then my phone vibrates in my purse. I break eye contact first, reaching for it. It's a text from Jamal: "Vendor delivery issue. Need you back ASAP."
"I have to go," I say, already standing. "Restaurant emergency."
Ethan signals for the check. "I'll walk you to the subway."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know. I want to."
We leave the restaurant together, his hand at the small of my back as we navigate through the sidewalk crowd. The photographers follow for half a block before giving up, probably satisfied they got enough shots of the happy newlyweds.
At the subway entrance, Ethan stops.
"Thank you for today," he says. "I know it wasn't exactly romantic."
"It was fine. Everything went as smoothly as it needed to go."
He smiles, that rare unguarded expression that makes him look younger and less severe. Then he leans in and kisses my forehead, so quick and casual I almost don't register it.
"Go fix your vendor emergency, Mrs. Evans."
The name sends a jolt through me. Mrs. Evans. I'm married. Actually legally married to this man I barely know, bound by a certificate and a contract and a gold band that's already starting to feel warm against my finger.
"See you later, husband," I say, aiming for levity.
Then I descend into the subway before I can overthink any of this.
My apartment is exactly as I left it this morning, but standing in the doorway with my keys still in my hand, something feels off.
I scan the living room. Couch against the wall, coffee table centered on the rug, bookshelf beside the window. Everything in its place.
Except the rug.
I stare at it. The rug is a vintage Persian I found at a flea market three years ago, deep red and gold patterns, positioned so it anchors the seating area. I'm meticulous about its placement, always making sure it sits exactly two feet from the couch legs.
Now it's shifted. Maybe six inches to the left, the fringe no longer parallel to the wall.
I set down my purse and cross the room. Crouch beside the rug and run my hand along the edge. The furniture hasn't moved, just the rug. Like someone picked it up and set it back down slightly off-center.
My pulse kicks up. I stand, scan the rest of the apartment. Kitchen looks normal. Bedroom door is closed, exactly how I left it. Bathroom door ajar.
I check every room anyway, methodically, looking for other signs of disturbance. In the bedroom, my jewelry box sits on the dresser. I open it. Everything's there—the few good pieces I own, costume jewelry I never wear, my grandmother's pearl earrings.
Nothing missing. Nothing obviously disturbed except the rug.
I return to the living room, stare at it again. Maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe I moved the rug yesterday and forgot, distracted by wedding prep and restaurant chaos. The exhaustion is making me paranoid, seeing threats where there aren't any.
Except I know where that rug belongs. I've positioned it a hundred times, always the same way, muscle memory taking over whenever I vacuum or rearrange furniture.
Someone was in my apartment.
The thought lands cold and certain. I pull out my phone, scroll to Ethan's contact. My thumb hovers over the call button.
What am I going to say? That my rug moved six inches? That I think someone broke in but nothing's missing and there's no other evidence? He'll think I'm being paranoid, seeing patterns where there's only coincidence.
Maybe I am being paranoid and this is just my exhausted brain creating problems because I'm so used to looking over my shoulder I've forgotten how to stop.
I pocket the phone without calling.
Instead I walk through the apartment one more time, checking windows, testing locks, looking for any other sign that someone was here. Everything else is exactly as it should be. Just the rug, shifted slightly, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it.
Which is exactly how Derek operates. Small reminders that he's still watching, still capable of reaching me even when I think I'm safe.
I sink onto the couch, still in my cream silk dress, gold band on my finger catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Married for barely a day and already second-guessing whether this arrangement will actually protect me, or if I've just given Derek more reason to escalate.
The apartment is quiet around me. Too quiet, as if it's holding its breath.
I stare at the rug and wonder if I imagined it all.