14. Ethan
ETHAN
The courtroom is cold, aggressive air conditioning that makes everyone sit a little stiffer in their chairs.
I'm cross-examining a witness in a breach-of-contract case, testimony so dry it makes the tax code read like thriller fiction, and somewhere around question seventeen my mind starts to drift.
Not dramatically. Just a flicker. Three seconds where I'm thinking about Mia's apartment instead of the deposition transcript I'm supposed to be referencing, wondering if she slept last night after what we found at Sable, whether she's actually going to let me install those security cameras or if she'll fight me on it because she fights me on everything.
I catch the slip immediately. I ask the same question twice in slightly different phrasing, which the witness notices and opposing counsel definitely notices, and for half a second I lose the thread of where this cross-examination is going.
It's the smallest error. Inconsequential. What happens to normal attorneys on normal days when they're tired or distracted or human.
I never make errors.
"Mr. Evans?" The judge's voice pulls me back. "Do you have another question for the witness?"
"Yes, Your Honor." I pivot smoothly, redirect the questioning, land exactly where I need to be. The witness stumbles over his answer and I press the advantage until he contradicts his earlier testimony. By the time I sit down opposing counsel looks rattled and the jury is paying attention again.
Victory, technically. But hollow in a way I can't quite name.
My junior associate, a first-year named Claire Sanderson who takes notes like she's transcribing sacred texts, leans over during recess.
"You repeated question sixteen," she murmurs. Quiet enough that only I hear it.
"I know."
"Just wanted to make sure you caught it."
"I caught it."
She nods, doesn't push, returns to her legal pad with the same meticulous focus she brings to everything.
Claire's good, sharp enough that she'll make senior associate in record time if she doesn't burn out first. Right now she's pretending she didn't just witness something that should be impossible.
Court adjourns at four. I collect my materials, shake hands with opposing counsel who's already calculating settlement numbers, and head back to the office with Claire trailing three steps behind like an anxious shadow.
"You need anything else today?" she asks when we reach my office.
"No. Go home."
"I was planning to prep the motion for summary judgment?—"
"Claire. Go home. Drink wine, watch terrible television, remember what life outside this building looks like."
She blinks at me like I've just suggested she commit a felony. Then nods slowly and retreats toward the elevators.
I close my office door, lean against it. The error loops in my head on repeat. It was sloppy, unfocused, a mistake first-years make when they're overwhelmed. I've been practicing law for years. I don't get overwhelmed.
An hour passes. Maybe two. The building empties around me, phones going quiet, hallway lights dimming to night mode. I should leave, go home to my penthouse that's suddenly less appealing than it used to be because Mia's not there.
That thought stops me cold.
I close the laptop, grab my coat.
Sable's dining room glows warm through the windows when I arrive at nine-fifteen, late enough that dinner service should be winding down but early enough that the kitchen's still firing.
I can see Mia through the pass, plating something with the intense focus she brings to everything, her chef's coat pristine despite hours on the line.
Tanya spots me hovering near the hostess stand.
"Mr. Evans. You here to see Chef?"
"If she's not too busy."
"She's always busy. But go on back."
The kitchen is controlled chaos. Three line cooks working stations, tickets clipped to the rail, the constant soundtrack of pans hitting burners and knives against cutting boards.
Jamal calls out an order, someone responds affirmatively, and everything moves with the precision of a system that's been refined through repetition.
Mia looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across her face before she smooths it away.
"What are you doing here?"
"You mentioned new dishes."
"I was joking about the taste testing."
"I wasn't."
She studies me for a beat, probably trying to figure out if I'm serious or just looking for an excuse to be here. Which is fair, because I'm not entirely sure myself.
"Give me twenty minutes," she says finally. "We're finishing the last few tickets."
I settle at the small table in the corner, the same one where we sat during the magazine shoot. From here I can watch the entire kitchen, see how Mia orchestrates the controlled chaos without ever raising her voice. Just precise callouts and efficient movement; every action deliberate.
She's beautiful when she's working. Not in the way she's beautiful dressed for events, but something more fundamental. The confidence of someone operating entirely within their element.
The last ticket goes out at nine forty-five. The line cooks start breaking down their stations while Jamal tallies covers and Mia pulls two plates from the warming drawer.
"Braised lamb shoulder," she says, setting them on the table. "With white bean purée and charred broccolini. And this one's duck breast with cherry gastrique and roasted fingerlings."
Both plates look like art. I'm starting to think everything she touches turns into art.
I taste the lamb first. The meat falls apart under my fork, rich and tender with layers of flavor I can't begin to identify. The beans are silky, the broccolini bitter in a way that cuts through the richness.
"Well?" Mia asks after I've taken three bites without speaking.
"It's incredible."
"You say that about everything I make."
"Because everything you make is incredible." I try the duck. The skin is perfectly crisp, the meat rosy and tender, the cherry gastrique sweet-tart and complex. "This might be even better than the lamb."
"They're completely different dishes."
"Which makes the comparison meaningless, I know. But if I had to choose, I'd order the duck."
She sits across from me with her own plate, and tastes both dishes critically. Frowns at something I can't detect.
"The gastrique needs more acid," she mutters. "Just a touch."
"Tastes perfect to me."
"That's because you're not a chef."
We eat in comfortable silence. The kitchen empties around us, staff heading home until it's just Jamal finishing paperwork in the office and us at this table.
"Long day?" Mia asks after a while.
"Court until four. Then paperwork until I decided to come harass you."
"Some harassment. Free food and my delightful company."
"Exactly what I was hoping for."
She rolls her eyes but she's smiling, that rare unguarded expression that makes her look younger.
"Did the cameras give you any trouble?" I ask.
"No. Though I'm still not convinced they're necessary."
"Derek left photos in your office, Mia. They're necessary."
"I know. I just hate that my restaurant needs security measures because some asshole can't take no for an answer."
The bitterness in her voice lands heavy. I set down my fork.
"It won't be forever," I tell her. "We'll build the case, present it to a judge, and get an order that actually has teeth. Derek will back off or face consequences he can't buy his way out of."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I believe it."
"What if you're wrong?"
"I'm not wrong."
"How can you be so certain?"
Because walking away from this, from her, is becoming less imaginable by the day and I need Derek Wayne gone so I can figure out what the hell that means.
"Because I don't lose cases I care about," I say instead.
She searches my face, looking for the lie. Whatever she finds makes her nod slowly.
"Tell me about the first case you lost," she says.
The request catches me completely off guard. "What?"
"You heard me. First case you lost. I want to know about it."
"Why?"
"Because you're sitting in my restaurant at ten o'clock on a Tuesday eating food I made, and I want to know something real about you. Something that's not in any profile piece or courtroom transcript."
I could deflect. Turn it into a joke, redirect the conversation, maintain the careful distance I've built my entire career around. Instead I hear myself say:
"Criminal defense. Pro bono case, three years into practice. A kid named Jordan Ellis, seventeen years old, charged with armed robbery. He swore he wasn't there, said the cops grabbed him because he fit the description and had priors for shoplifting."
Mia's watching me with complete attention now, the way she watches when someone's explaining a technique she wants to learn.
"Jordan's public defender was drowning under a hundred-case load," I continue. "He wasn't giving him adequate representation. So I took the case pro bono, thought I'd get it dismissed before trial."
"But you didn't."
"No. The evidence was circumstantial, witness IDs were questionable, but the prosecutor was good and the jury was conservative and they convicted him in four hours. Jordan got eight years. He was eighteen by the time sentencing came around."
The memory sits heavy, even after all this time. I can still see Jordan's face when the verdict came back, the way his mother collapsed in the gallery, the absolute certainty I felt that I'd failed someone who trusted me.
"What happened to him?" Mia asks quietly.
"Served six years, got out on good behavior. Last I heard he was working construction in Queens, staying clean. But those six years in Rikers at that age..." I trail off. "It changes you. Hardens you. He went in as a kid and came out as something else."
"And you blame yourself."
"I should've been better. Should've found the hole in the prosecution's case, convinced the jury, something. Instead I lost and a young kid paid for it."
Mia reaches across the table, covers my hand with hers. The gesture is simple, grounding.
"You took a case no one else wanted," she says. "You fought for someone who couldn't afford to fight for himself."
"He still went to prison."
"Because the system is broken. Not because you didn't care enough."
The words land softer than they should. I turn my hand over beneath hers, our palms pressing together, fingers lacing naturally.
"I've never told anyone that story," I say.
"Why tell me?"
"Because you asked. And because..." I pause, searching for the right words. "Because you're the first person in years who's asked about something that isn't billable hours or win-loss records."
She squeezes my hand gently. "You're not as terrible as you think you are."
We sit like that for a while, hands clasped across the table, the kitchen quiet around us. Outside, the city continues its endless soundtrack.
"Thank you for the food," I say eventually. "And for listening."
"Thank you for showing up." She releases my hand, starts collecting plates. "You should go home. Get some sleep."
"What about you?"
"I'll be here another hour. Prep work for tomorrow."
"Want company?"
"Ethan. Go home."
"I don't want to."
Mia pauses, plates balanced in her hands, and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"You're making this complicated," she whispers.
"I know."
"We had rules."
"I'm aware."
"This isn't supposed to be real."
"And yet here we are."
She sets the plates down carefully, like they might shatter. When she looks at me again there's something raw in her expression, vulnerability she usually keeps buried beneath chef's coats and controlled efficiency.
"I'm scared," she admits. "Of Derek, of what he might do next, of how exposed I feel even with security cameras and restraining orders. But I'm also scared of this. Of you. Of whatever's happening between us that I can't control or compartmentalize."
I stand, close the distance between us. My hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.
"I'm scared too," I tell her. "But I meant what I said at Lincoln Center. Derek Wayne is done. And whatever this is between us, we'll figure it out."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
Then I kiss her, right there in her empty kitchen with the overhead lights harsh and unflattering and the smell of rendered duck fat still hanging in the air. It's not performed for cameras or witnesses. Just us, finally honest about something we've both been circling for weeks.
When we break apart she's smiling, small and cautious but genuine.
"Go home, Ethan."
"Come with me."
"…What?"
"I said what I said. Come home with me."
She gnaws on her bottom lip for a moment, before she nods. "Give me a few minutes. I have to finish up here."
"Take your time," I reply, a giddiness spreading throughout my body. "I'll be waiting."