28. Ethan
ETHAN
Richard's assistant confirmed it yesterday: full partnership review, all seven senior partners present. The email subject line read "Image Rehabilitation Assessment," which is corporate speak for deciding whether I'm still a liability or if they can stomach keeping me on the masthead.
Six months ago I walked into a near-identical meeting and got handed an ultimatum. Fix your image or find another firm.
Turns out marrying a chef to save your reputation has unintended consequences. Like actually falling in love with her and restructuring your entire value system around keeping one person safe instead of winning at all costs.
I button my cuffs, check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The charcoal Tom Ford suit is impeccable, tie knotted with precision. I look exactly like the attorney who walked out of that first meeting convinced he could game the system.
The man staring back feels like a stranger.
Mia's still asleep when I leave, curled on her side in my bed with her face pressed into the pillow. The bruises have faded and the cut on her throat has reduced to a thin line of healing tissue. She looks peaceful in a way she hasn't since the warehouse.
I press a kiss to her temple without waking her, leave a note on the nightstand: Partnership meeting. Back by four. Call if you need anything.
The subway's packed at noon on a Thursday. I stand near the door, one hand gripping the overhead rail while the train lurches through tunnels. A woman beside me reads the Post, Derek Wayne's arrest splashed across page three. The headline screams "Stalker Finally Faces Justice."
The irony isn't lost on me. Six months ago I was the villain in every headline. Now I'm... what, exactly? The hero? The redemption story? The attorney who traded his soul for good press and accidentally found it again?
I take the elevator to floor sixteen, nod at the receptionist who's seen me coming and going for seven years, and head straight to the conference room.
Richard's already there. So is Patricia, impeccable in navy Armani, reading something on her tablet. Michael Torres sits near the window nursing coffee. Henry Cho arrives thirty seconds after me, followed by the remaining partners filtering in over the next five minutes.
Everyone takes their seats. I sit across from Richard, hands folded on the table, spine straight.
"Ethan." Richard's voice carries the same measured tone he uses for opening statements. "Thank you for coming."
"Not like I had much choice."
Patricia doesn't smile. "We asked you here to discuss the outcome of your... arrangement with Ms. Holland."
"Mia," I correct. "Her name is Mia."
"Fine. Your arrangement with Mia Holland.
" She taps her tablet, pulls up something.
"When we last spoke, you were instructed to rehabilitate your public image through visible, morally defensible work.
The expectation was pro bono representation, community engagement, something demonstrating character beyond courtroom victories. "
"I'm aware."
"Instead," she continues, "you married a restaurateur in what appeared to be a transparent publicity stunt, pursued a stalking case with personal rather than professional motivations, and ended up all over the news when your wife was kidnapped by the man you were supposed to be protecting her from. "
The summary lands like an indictment. Accurate in facts, missing everything that matters.
"Is there a question in there?" I ask.
Richard leans forward. "The question is whether you've actually changed, Ethan. Or whether you simply found a more palatable way to manipulate public perception."
The conference room goes quiet. Everyone's watching me, waiting to see how I'll respond. Six months ago I would've had an argument ready, something sharp and persuasive that reframed the narrative in my favor.
Now I just tell the truth.
"When you gave me that ultimatum, I thought you were asking me to perform.
Find a sympathetic case, do some good press, convince everyone I had a conscience underneath the legal strategy.
" I meet Richard's eyes. "That's what I set out to do.
The marriage to Mia was calculated. Fake relationship, mutual benefit, clean exit strategy once the press moved on. "
Patricia's expression doesn't change. "And then?"
"I fell in love with her,” I admit. "The arrangement stopped being fake to me. She stopped being a case. And when Derek Wayne took her, when I spent twelve hours not knowing if she was alive or dead, I realized I'd burn down my entire career if that's what it took to keep her safe."
Silence.
"Derek Wayne is facing thirty years," I continue.
"He pleaded guilty to lesser charges yesterday in exchange for fifteen with parole eligibility after ten.
Mia agreed to the deal because going to trial meant reliving the trauma publicly, and I supported that decision even though every instinct I have wanted to watch him get maximum sentencing.
That's caring more about her healing than my own satisfaction. "
"You're saying you've changed," Richard says carefully.
"I'm saying I didn't realize how hollow winning felt until I had something worth protecting more than my win record.
" I lean back, let the admission sit. "You wanted proof of character.
Here it is. I spent six months learning that being right in a courtroom doesn't matter if you're wrong about everything else.
Mia taught me that. This whole situation taught me that. "
Patricia sets down her tablet. "The press coverage has been remarkably positive. Every outlet that crucified you over the Ripley case has now written glowing profiles about your handling of the Wayne case."
"I didn't do it for the press."
"We know." This is from Michael, speaking for the first time.
"That's the point. You could've milked this for maximum publicity, turned it into a media circus.
Instead you kept your head down, worked the case quietly, and only made headlines when Derek forced the situation public.
That's discretion we haven't seen from you before. "
Richard picks up a folder, slides it across the table. I open it to find printouts of articles, case summaries, client feedback forms.
"Your existing clients have been satisfied with your work," he says. "The cases you've handled during this period have maintained your usual quality despite the personal circumstances. Your junior associates report you've been more patient, more willing to mentor instead of simply delegating."
I scan the documents. Performance reviews, all positive. Client retention at ninety-three percent. Billable hours slightly down but still respectable given the situation.
"Here's where we land," Patricia says. "You're no longer a liability. The public narrative has shifted. But more importantly, we've seen actual behavioral change. You're still brilliant in the courtroom, but you're applying that brilliance with judgment now instead of pure aggression."
"What does that mean for my partnership status?"
"It means you keep it." Richard's voice is firm. "No probationary period, no further ultimatums. You proved what we needed you to prove—that you're capable of being more than a legal mercenary when it matters."
The relief that floods my system is immediate and unexpected. I didn't realize how much I'd been bracing for the opposite outcome until the tension drains from my shoulders.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank us yet," Patricia says. "We're assigning you to lead the pro bono division's new domestic violence initiative.
Cases like Mia's, people who need representation against wealthy, connected abusers.
You'll handle strategy, train junior associates, and serve as the public face of the program. "
The assignment lands with perfect irony. Six months ago they wanted me on puff pieces and charity galas. Now they're handing me exactly the kind of work I initially dismissed as beneath me.
"I accept."
"Good." Richard stands, extends his hand. "Welcome back, Ethan."
I shake his hand, then Patricia's, work my way around the table accepting congratulations from partners who six months ago looked ready to push me out a window.
When I leave the conference room my phone shows three texts from Mia.
"How's the meeting going?"
"Never mind, dumb question. You're probably still in there."
"I made lunch. Come home when you're done."
The words come home do something to my chest. Home isn't the penthouse anymore. It's wherever Mia is, cooking in my kitchen, existing in my space like she's always belonged there.
I text back: "Meeting went well. Heading home now."
Her response is immediate: "Good. I have news too."
The subway ride back feels faster than the trip there. I take the stairs up to the penthouse instead of waiting for the elevator, unlock the door to the smell of something savory and complex.
Mia's in the kitchen wearing one of my button-downs over leggings, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back while she plates what looks like pan-seared salmon with roasted vegetables.
She looks up when I enter, face breaking into a smile that makes everything else irrelevant.
"You're back. How'd it go?"
"I kept my partnership. They're putting me in charge of a domestic violence legal initiative."
"Ethan, that's amazing." She crosses to me, rises on her toes to kiss me. "I'm so proud of you."
"What's your news?"
Her smile widens. "I talked to Detective Lee this morning. Derek's plea deal is finalized. Fifteen years, no parole eligibility for ten. It's done."
The weight I've been carrying since the warehouse finally lifts. Derek Wayne is going to prison, Mia is safe, and somehow in the process of trying to save my career I found something worth more than any partnership.
"We should celebrate," I say.
"We are. I made dinner."
"I meant really celebrate. Reservations somewhere, champagne, the whole thing."
She cups my face, thumbs brushing my jaw. "This is perfect. Just you, me, and food I actually wanted to cook for the first time in weeks. That's all the celebration I need."
We eat at the kitchen island, legs tangled together on adjacent stools, talking about everything and nothing.
She tells me about Jamal's latest menu suggestion.
I tell her about Patricia's face when I admitted to falling in love.
The conversation flows easy, comfortable, like we've been doing this for years instead of months.
Halfway through the meal she sets down her fork, expression turning serious.
"I've been thinking about the apartment."
"We can find you a new place whenever you're ready. No rush."
"That's not what I mean." She takes a breath. "I don't want a new place. I want to stay here. With you. If that's something you'd want too."
"Mia… I've wanted that for a long time. I just didn't think you were ready to hear it."
"I'm ready now." Her hand finds mine across the counter. "I'm in love with you, Ethan. The real kind of love where I actually want to build a life together instead of just signing paperwork for mutual benefit."
I bring her hand to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. "Then move in properly. Not as the guest who's crashing here temporarily, but as the person who lives here because this is home."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She laughs, watery and relieved, and kisses me hard enough that I taste salt from tears neither of us acknowledges.
We finish dinner curled together on the couch, her head on my chest while I flip through case files and she scrolls through restaurant supply catalogs on her phone. It's domestic and ordinary and nothing like the calculated arrangement we started with.
And for the first time in my career, winning feels like the least important thing I've ever done.