16. Ethan
ETHAN
Iwake to empty sheets and immediate devastation.
The realization comes in stages. First, the absence of warmth beside me where Mia should be. Then the silence, no shower running or coffee brewing or any of the small sounds that indicate another person existing in my space. Finally, the certainty settles like concrete: she left.
This is the deal, I remind myself. Two smart adults. We crossed a line last night and she corrected course before it became something messier.
The thought rings hollow.
I shower, dress in running gear I haven't touched in months. Seven AM finds me standing outside a spin studio three blocks from my building, staring at the neon sign like it might offer answers.
I've never taken a spin class. Never seen the appeal of sweating in a dark room while someone with a headset microphone yells motivational nonsense over bass-heavy music.
But standing here on the sidewalk, I can't think of anywhere else to go that won't involve sitting alone in my apartment remembering how Mia looked in my bed.
The studio is packed with the kind of people who wake up before dawn to punish themselves voluntarily. I sign in at the desk, get assigned a bike in the back corner, clip my shoes into the pedals like the instructor demonstrates.
The lights dim. Music starts, something aggressive and rhythmic that makes my teeth hurt. The instructor, a woman in her thirties with arms like steel cables, starts shouting about finding our power and pushing past limits.
I turn the resistance knob, start pedaling.
Three minutes in, my legs are burning. Five minutes in, I'm sweating through my shirt. By minute eight I'm gripping the handlebars and thinking about Mia walking away from my apartment at two AM, and the connection between physical exertion and emotional processing is completely lost on me.
I stop pedaling.
The instructor notices immediately. "Hey, back corner! Don't give up! This is where you find yourself!"
I unclip my shoes, dismount, and walk out of the studio while forty people continue cycling to nowhere.
Outside, the morning air feels mercifully cool against my overheated skin. I lean against the brick wall, catch my breath, and acknowledge what I've been avoiding since I woke up alone.
I'm completely unmoored.
For eight years I've operated on a simple principle: control the variables, anticipate outcomes, never let emotion override strategy. It's made me successful, wealthy, untouchable in every way that matters professionally.
And in the past few months, Mia Holland has systematically dismantled every defense I built.
My phone rings, and it's Josiah's name on the screen.
"Tell me something good," I say by way of greeting.
"Depends on your definition of good. Derek Wayne just applied for an apartment lease."
The words take a second to penetrate. When they do, my entire body goes cold.
"Where?"
"Two blocks from Sable. Luxury building on 125th. He submitted the application yesterday, offered six months rent up front."
I close my eyes. Two blocks. Walking distance to Mia's restaurant, close enough to monitor her movements, far enough to claim coincidence if questioned.
"Is the application approved?"
"Pending background check. Building requires references and credit verification, standard procedure. But with his financials, they'll approve him."
"When?"
"Three to five business days, probably."
Three to five days before Derek Wayne moves within striking distance of Mia's entire life. Before he can watch her restaurant from his window, track her schedule, escalate from photographs to something worse.
The panic I've been holding back since finding those photos in her office crystallizes.
"I need you to contact the building management," I say. "Find out who's making the approval decision. I want their name, their number, anything we can use as leverage."
"Leverage for what?"
"To kill the application before it goes through."
"Ethan, that's not?—"
"I don't care if it's ethical or legal or any of the other things you're about to tell me it's not. Derek Wayne is not moving two blocks from her restaurant. Find me an angle."
Josiah is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again his voice has shifted into the tone he uses when I'm crossing lines he can't follow me across.
"You're losing objectivity."
"I'm protecting my client."
"Your client is your wife. And you're talking about interfering with a legal rental application because you don't like the applicant's history.
That's personal, and I'm saying that as someone who's worked with you for five years and has never seen you this close to making a mistake you can't walk back from. "
I lean my head against the brick wall, stare up at the sky. Cloudless, painfully blue, a perfect morning that feels like mockery.
"He's going to hurt her," I whisper. "You read the file. Two women before Mia, both gone. Derek doesn't stop until someone makes him stop, and right now I'm the only person standing between him and her."
"Then build the case properly. Gather evidence, file motions, work within the system."
"The system is too slow."
Josiah exhales, long and frustrated. "I'll look into the building management. But I'm not promising anything, and if this goes sideways it's on you."
"Understood."
He hangs up. I pocket my phone and start walking with no destination in mind, just movement to burn off the adrenaline coursing through my system.
Josiah's words loop in my head on repeat: You're losing objectivity.
He's right. I know he's right. I crossed from professional representation into something messier and far more dangerous the moment I called Kenley about criminal charges.
Possibly even before that, maybe the first time I sat in Mia's kitchen and watched her cook like it was the most important thing happening in the world.
I've built my entire career on the ability to separate what I do from who I am. To defend clients without becoming emotionally invested in their outcomes.
It's what makes me good at my job. What made me good at my job, past tense, because right now I can't separate Mia from anything.
I'm screwed. I know I am, but I can't bring myself to care that much anymore.