Ethan's POV
I stare at the photo on my phone for the third time tonight.
It's from a private investigator's report. Marcus Reid, standing across the street from Dante's building yesterday. Telephoto lens. Time-stamped. Clear as day.
He wasn't just texting Zara. He was physically there. Watching her.
I should feel satisfied—I have proof she's being harassed. Evidence I can use to get a restraining order. That's what lawyers do. Collect facts. Build cases. Win.
So why does my chest feel tight?
I pour myself a scotch and stand at my penthouse window, looking out at Manhattan's glittering lights. At 11 PM, the city is still alive. People down there are falling in love, falling apart, making stupid decisions they'll regret tomorrow.
My phone rings. Nora.
"It's late," I answer.
"And yet you're still awake." Her voice is knowing. "Which means you're thinking too hard about something. Or someone."
"I'm reviewing case files."
"Liar. You're thinking about her."
I don't ask who. We both know.
"The wedding planner is being stalked by her ex-fiancé," I say instead. "I have evidence."
"Did she ask for your help?"
"No."
"Then why are you investigating her stalker at 11 PM on a Tuesday?"
Good question. One I don't have a good answer for.
"Due diligence," I say finally. "If Marcus Reid causes problems during this wedding, it affects my clients."
"Uh-huh. And that's why you've run three separate background checks on him since yesterday?"
Damn it. Nora knows me too well.
"He's dangerous," I say. "She ran out of that elevator like she'd seen a ghost. Whatever he texted her—"
"So you're worried about her."
"I'm concerned about liability—"
"Ethan." Nora's voice softens. "I've worked with you for eight years. You've never run background checks on opposing counsel's exes. You've never followed up on a client meeting twice in one day. And you've definitely never called me at 9 PM asking what I know about trauma responses in betrayal victims."
Silence. Because she's right and we both know it.
"She's different," I admit quietly.
"How?"
I think about Zara in that elevator. The way her eyes blazed when she defended her belief in love. The crack in her voice when she said Marcus doesn't get to win.
"She's been destroyed," I say. "Completely destroyed. And she still believes in happy endings. It's either the bravest thing I've ever seen or the most delusional."
"And you can't figure out which."
"No." I take a long drink. "I can't."
Nora is quiet for a moment. Then: "You know what your problem is? You've spent so long protecting yourself from feeling anything that when someone makes you feel something, you don't know what to do with it."
"I don't feel—"
"You called her brave or delusional. That's feeling, Ethan. That's caring enough to try to understand her." She pauses. "When's the last time you tried to understand anyone?"
The question hits harder than it should.
"I have to go," I say.
"Couple's therapy tomorrow at 10 AM. Don't be late. And Ethan?" Her voice is gentle. "Don't be cruel to her just because she scares you."
She hangs up before I can argue.
I stare at Marcus Reid's photo again. At his smug face. At the predatory way he's watching that building.
Men like him make me sick. Men who destroy the people who trust them. Men like my father.
Before I can stop myself, I'm typing a text to Zara.
"We need to talk about Marcus Reid. Tomorrow, before therapy. 8 AM at Café Noir on 5th. Don't argue. -E.C."
I hit send, then immediately regret it.
She's going to think I'm controlling. Overstepping. Being the cold, calculating lawyer she already hates.
But if Marcus is escalating, she needs to know what I found. She needs protection, even if she's too stubborn to ask for it.
My phone buzzes. Her response:
"Who gave you permission to investigate my life?"
Fair question.
"No one. But I did it anyway. 8 AM. Be there."
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Finally:
"Fine. But this doesn't mean I like you."
Despite everything, I smile.
"The feeling is mutual, Miss Kingsley."
Zara's POV
I arrive at Café Noir at 7:55 AM because I refuse to give Ethan Cross the satisfaction of being there first.
But he's already there.
Of course he is.
He sits at a corner table, laptop open, coffee in hand. When he sees me, he closes the laptop and stands. The gesture is automatic, old-fashioned, and completely unexpected.
"You're early," he says.
"So are you."
"I'm always early."
"How responsible of you," I say, sliding into the chair across from him. "Must be nice to be so perfect."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he pushes a folder across the table.
"What's this?"
"Everything I found on Marcus Reid in the last 24 hours."
I stare at the folder like it's a snake. "You investigated him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're being stalked and you're too proud to ask for help." His gray eyes meet mine. "Open it."
My hands shake as I flip open the folder. Photos. Documents. Text message records.
Marcus outside Dante's building. Four different days. Different angles.
Marcus outside my apartment. Last week. The week before.
Marcus meeting with Vanessa Chen. Two days ago. At a restaurant, their heads close together, clearly planning something.
My stomach turns. "How did you—"
"Private investigator. I have him on retainer." Ethan leans forward. "Zara, this isn't random harassment. This is a pattern. He's been watching you for weeks, maybe longer."
"I know that," I whisper.
"Then why haven't you filed a police report?"
Because I'm scared. Because I'm ashamed. Because some broken part of me still believes I deserved what Marcus did.
But I don't say any of that.
"What good would it do? He hasn't technically threatened me. He's just... watching."
"He photographed us together in that elevator and sent it to you with a threatening message. That's criminal harassment in New York."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." His voice is sharp. "You think if you report him, it'll make things worse. You think he'll escalate. You think you can handle this alone because asking for help means admitting you're vulnerable." He pauses. "Am I close?"
Too close. Dangerously close.
"You don't know anything about me," I say defensively.
"I know you were publicly humiliated three years ago. I know Marcus and Vanessa didn't just betray you personally—they systematically destroyed your business. I know you rebuilt from nothing, working 80-hour weeks, taking on debt, proving everyone wrong." His eyes don't leave mine. "And I know you're terrified it's about to happen again."
Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back furiously.
"Stop investigating me."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I said no." He leans back, crossing his arms. "You're my client's wedding planner. If Marcus sabotages this wedding like he sabotaged that other one, my clients suffer. So I'm going to keep investigating until I know exactly what his plan is and how to stop it."
"This isn't about your clients. This is about you being a control freak—"
"You're right." The admission stops me cold. "It's not just about my clients. It's about the fact that men like Marcus Reid make me physically sick. Men who destroy people and then stalk them afterward? Men who can't accept that they lost?" His voice drops, goes rough. "I've spent my entire career helping people escape from monsters like him. So forgive me if I can't just stand by and watch him hunt you."
The vulnerability in his words catches me completely off-guard. For a moment, the cold mask slips and I see someone who understands exactly what it feels like to be trapped by someone else's cruelty.
"Who was it?" I ask quietly. "Who destroyed you?"
His mask slams back into place. "This conversation isn't about me."
"You just made it about you."
We stare at each other. The café buzzes around us—people ordering coffee, laughing, living normal lives—but our table feels like an island.
Finally, Ethan speaks. "My father was a serial cheater. My mother stayed with him for twenty years because she loved him. Or thought she did. By the end, she was addicted to pills, attempting suicide, begging him not to leave." His voice is flat, emotionless. "He left anyway. The day after I found her unconscious in the bathroom. I was fifteen."
Oh God.
"Ethan—"
"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Don't give me sympathy. I'm not telling you this for sympathy. I'm telling you this so you understand why I take stalking seriously. Why I can't watch someone be hunted by their abuser and do nothing." His eyes are hard. "My mother never reported my father. Never filed for divorce until he'd already abandoned us. She thought love meant suffering. I won't let you make the same mistake."
"Marcus wasn't abusive—"
"He stole from you. Humiliated you. And now he's stalking you. That's abuse, Zara. Maybe not physical, but it's still abuse."
The words hit like a punch. Because he's right. I've never called it abuse before. I called it betrayal, called it heartbreak, called it a thousand other things. But abuse?
"I need to think," I whisper.
Ethan nods. He pulls out a business card and writes something on the back. "This is my personal cell. Not the office line. If Marcus contacts you—if he shows up, if he threatens you, if you just get scared—you call me. Immediately. Understood?"
I take the card. Our fingers brush and I feel that electric shock again.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask. "You don't even like me."
Something flickers in his eyes. "I never said I don't like you."
"You called me naive. Delusional. Said I sell dangerous fantasies."
"I did." He stands, collecting his laptop. "I still think you're recklessly optimistic and your belief in soulmates is statistically ridiculous. But that doesn't mean I want to see you hurt."
He walks toward the door, then stops and turns back.
"For what it's worth? The way you defended love in that elevator, even after everything that happened to you?" His voice softens. "That wasn't delusion. That was courage. Real courage. The kind most people don't have."
Then he's gone, leaving me sitting there with tears streaming down my face and his business card clutched in my hand.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I almost don't look. But I have to.
The message makes my blood run cold:
"Cute coffee date. Does your ice king know you're damaged goods? That you're the reason your clients' weddings fall apart? Ask him what he'll think when he learns the REAL reason that wedding got canceled. Hint: it wasn't just me showing up. You made a choice that night, Zara. A choice you've been hiding ever since. Tick tock. -M"
Below it, another photo.
Me and Ethan. This morning. Through the café window.
But that's not the worst part.
The worst part is the document attached. A contract. From three years ago. With my signature at the bottom.
A contract I thought was destroyed. A contract that proves Marcus is telling the truth.
I did make a choice that night. A choice I've never told anyone about.
A choice that could destroy everything I've rebuilt.
And now Marcus has proof.