12. Ethan #2
"Did you exploit legal technicalities to let an abuser walk free?"
"How many other guilty clients have you gotten acquitted?"
The questions come faster now, overlapping, designed to overwhelm. I should keep walking, follow Mia out the door, let them shout at my retreating back. That's the smart play, the professional response.
Instead I feel Mia's hand close around my wrist.
She's moved back through the crowd, positioned herself directly between me and the lead photographer. Her face is set in an expression I recognize from her kitchen, the one she wears right before she fires someone.
"He said no comment," she tells the photographer quietly. "Which in civilized society means you stop asking questions and find something better to do with your evening."
"Mrs. Evans, I'm just trying to get a statement?—"
"You're trying to create a scene you can sell. We're not interested in participating."
The photographer opens his mouth to argue. Mia doesn't give him the chance.
"You want to know if this marriage is real?
Fine. Here's your answer: I chose to marry this man.
Not because I'm being used, not because it's convenient, but because for the first time in two years someone actually gave a damn about protecting me instead of just talking about it.
So if you're looking for some scandal about PR strategies and calculated relationships, you're going to be disappointed. Now move."
The last word isn't a request. It's an order, delivered with enough authority that the photographer actually takes a step back. The crowd around us has gone quiet, watching this exchange with the kind of rapt attention usually reserved for actual theater.
Mia's hand is still wrapped around my wrist. I can feel her pulse hammering against my skin, adrenaline or anger or both.
"Come on," she murmurs, tugging me toward the exit.
We move through the crowd together. This time people actually part for us, creating a clear path to the doors. The photographers follow but at a distance, their aggressive energy deflated by whatever just happened.
Outside, the night air is cool and damp with the threat of rain. The street is packed with people waiting for cars or heading toward the subway, the sidewalk a river of evening wear and expensive perfume.
I spot a recessed doorway about twenty feet down, the entrance to some closed business, dark and sheltered. I steer Mia toward it without asking, my hand finding hers naturally, our fingers lacing together as we navigate through the crowd.
The doorway is exactly what I hoped for, deep enough that we're out of the main flow of foot traffic, shadowed enough that we're not immediately visible.
I pull Mia into the space and she comes willingly, her back pressing against the door as I position myself in front of her, blocking her from view.
For a moment we just stand there, catching our breath. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. The gold cuff on her wrist catches the ambient street light, glinting as her hand comes up to push hair away from her face.
"That was insane," she says.
"You were incredible."
"I wasn't thinking. I just reacted."
"You defended me."
"You would've done the same for me."
"Yes. But you did it first."
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and something in her expression shifts. The distance I've been feeling all night cracks open slightly, revealing whatever she's been holding back.
I kiss her.
The decision happens somewhere between one breath and the next, instinct overriding logic, my mouth finding hers with more urgency than the situation requires.
It's not chaste like City Hall, not performed for cameras or witnesses.
This is something else entirely, raw and unplanned, driven by the need to stop her spiraling and show her that I mean what I said about keeping her safe.
Her hands come up to fist in my jacket lapels. She makes a small sound against my mouth, surprise or relief or surrender, and then she's kissing me back with an intensity that steals whatever remaining rationality I was clinging to.
I back her more firmly against the door, my body bracketing hers, one hand still cupping her face while the other slides into her hair. She tastes like wine and something sweeter, mint maybe, and when her lips part slightly I take the invitation without hesitation.
The street continues around us, people passing by, car horns honking, the city's endless soundtrack playing on.
None of it registers. Right now there's only Mia Holland pressed against a doorway in Lincoln Center, kissing me like she's been wanting to do it for weeks but was too stubborn to admit it.
When we finally break apart we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lips slightly swollen. My hand is still in her hair, hers still gripping my jacket, neither of us moving to create distance.
"What was that for?" she whispers.
"Because I wanted to," I say simply. "Because you were spiraling and I needed to ground you."
"Kissing me helps?"
"Apparently." I smile, offering her an arm. "Now let's go before those vultures find us again."