Seven a.m., Seattle District Attorney's Office.

Emily Sullivan took a deep breath, gazing up at the imposing glass and steel building that would be her new workplace. The morning sun reflected off its modern facade, the scales of justice emblem gleaming above the entrance. Twenty-eight years old, and she'd finally made it here—though later than most.

Three years at a private law firm defending white-collar criminals had taught her plenty, but this was what she'd really wanted all along. To prosecute, not defend. To stand on the side of justice, not just the side that paid better.

"You've got this, Sullivan," she muttered to herself, adjusting her black-rimmed glasses before pushing through the revolving doors.

The lobby was all polished marble and serious faces. She approached the security desk. "Emily Sullivan, first day as Assistant District Attorney."

The guard checked her ID and handed over a temporary badge. "Welcome aboard. Human Resources is on the third floor. And, uh—" He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "fair warning, Carter's in a mood today."

"Carter?"

"Ethan Carter. Your new boss. Word to the wise: stay out of his way when he's like this."

Emily filed that information away and headed for the elevator. The HR paperwork was efficient and impersonal—fill this out, sign here, there's your permanent badge. Then Joan from HR personally escorted her to the Major Crimes Unit.

"You'll be working under Ethan Carter," Joan said, and there was something odd in her tone. Sympathy, maybe? "He's... demanding. Brilliant, don't get me wrong. Youngest Chief ADA in Seattle's history. But he has high standards."

"I can handle high standards," Emily said confidently.

Joan gave her a look that said, "We'll see about that."

The Major Crimes Unit was an open floor plan with glass-walled offices around the perimeter. Emily spotted him immediately—the man sitting in the corner office, hunched over case files with an intensity that seemed to create its own force field. Even from across the room, she could see the sharp angles of his face, the perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the way his jaw clenched as he read.

Ethan Carter. Thirty-six, according to the file she'd reviewed. Harvard Law. Three years in the Manhattan DA's office before moving back to Seattle. Undefeated trial record for two years running. And apparently, insufferable.

Joan knocked on his open door. "Ethan, your new ADA is here."

He didn't look up. "Give me a minute."

That minute stretched into five. Emily stood there, briefcase in hand, watching him make meticulous notes in the margin of whatever document had his attention. Finally, he set down his pen and looked up.

The first thing she noticed were his eyes—steel gray and assessing, taking her measure in one sweep. The second thing was that he was annoyingly attractive in that classic, severe way. Strong jaw, dark hair with just a hint of silver at the temples, broad shoulders that filled out his suit jacket perfectly.

The third thing she noticed was that he was already unimpressed. "Emily Sullivan?"

"Yes, sir."

"Education?"

"Georgetown Law, top fifteen percent of my class. Order of the Coif."

"Work experience?"

"Three years at Morrison & Partners, primarily white-collar defense."

His expression soured. "Defense." He said it like it was a dirty word. "So you spent three years getting criminals off on technicalities. And now you want to prosecute them. Interesting career pivot."

Emily felt her temper flare but kept her voice level. "I wanted prosecution experience from the start. Market realities meant taking what was available. I'm here now because this is where I want to be."

"Want to be." He leaned back in his chair. "Everyone wants to be here until they realize what it actually takes. Long hours. Impossible caseloads. Defense attorneys who'll tear you apart in court. Victims who need you to be perfect because you're their last hope. Most people wash out in six months."

"I'm not most people."

"We'll see." He pulled a stack of case files from his desk—it had to be two feet high—and dropped it on the edge. "Three days. I want a full analysis of every case in this stack. Legal issues, evidence gaps, prosecution strategy. PowerPoint presentation, Thursday afternoon."

Emily stared at the stack. It would take a week just to read through all of them, let alone analyze them. This was a test—probably one designed to make her quit on day one.

She met his eyes. "Consider it done."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or annoyance that she hadn't backed down. "You'll also handle all administrative tasks for the unit. Coffee runs, filing, answering phones, scheduling. The glamorous life of a junior ADA."

"I'm a prosecutor, not a paralegal."

"You're whatever I need you to be. Don't like it? There's the door." He picked up his pen, already dismissing her. "Your desk is the one by the copier. Try not to slow us down."

Emily gathered up the case files, her arms already aching from the weight. The desk by the copier was exactly as bad as it sounded—tucked into a corner with fluorescent lights humming overhead, probably the worst spot in the whole unit.

She set down the files and looked around. Her new colleagues were pointedly not making eye contact, all suddenly very interested in their own work. Great. Everyone here already knew what kind of boss Carter was, and they were waiting to see how long she'd last.

"Coffee preferences?" Ethan's voice carried across the office.

Emily turned. "Excuse me?"

"Everyone's coffee preferences. Learn them. First one's mine—dark roast, no sugar, one cream. Not two, not a splash. Exactly one measured tablespoon. Water at 195 degrees, steep for four minutes."

Was he serious? Emily walked over to the small kitchen area, found the coffee supplies, and started a fresh pot. She made a point of using the thermometer and timer, following his ridiculous instructions to the letter.

When she placed the cup on his desk, he took a sip and frowned. "Water was too hot. Burned the grounds. Try again."

Emily took the cup back without a word. In the kitchen, she dumped it out and started over, this time letting the water cool an extra thirty seconds. When she returned, Ethan tasted it and gave a slight nod.

No "thank you." No acknowledgment beyond that barely-there nod. Just back to his files.

Emily returned to her desk and cracked open the first case file. Bank fraud. She started taking notes, already building the framework for her analysis.

Around noon, people started leaving for lunch. Emily stayed put, still reading.

A friendly face appeared at her desk—one of her new colleagues, a guy in his thirties with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Hey, I'm Ryan Mitchell. Want to grab lunch with us?"

"Thanks, but I need to work through these files."

Ryan glanced at the stack. "Yeah, that's... that's a lot. Carter pulled this on you on your first day?"

"Apparently."

"Listen, he does this to everyone. Tests them to see if they'll crack. But this is excessive even for him." Ryan lowered his voice. "His mom ambushed him with another blind date this morning. He's been in a mood ever since."

"Well, I'm not going to be collateral damage from his dating drama." Emily turned back to her files. "But thanks for the heads up."

Ryan smiled. "You're tougher than you look. Good. You'll need it."

The afternoon crawled by. Emily worked steadily through the cases, making notes, cross-referencing statutes, identifying weaknesses in the prosecution's evidence. Her eyes burned and her back ached, but she kept going.

At six o'clock, people started packing up. Emily was only halfway through the stack.

Ethan emerged from his office, suit jacket over his arm. "Conference room needs to be cleaned. Meeting materials from this morning are still scattered around. Make sure it's done before you leave."

Then he was gone, along with everyone else. Emily sat in the empty office, illuminated only by her desk lamp and the glow of the city through the windows. She allowed herself exactly one minute of self-pity, then got up and cleaned the conference room.

At midnight, she was still at her desk, working through case number eighteen of thirty-two. Her stomach growled—she'd skipped dinner—and her contacts felt like sandpaper, but she was making progress.

The elevator dinged. Emily looked up, surprised. Who else was here this late?

Ethan Carter stepped out, carrying a paper bag. He paused when he saw her, genuine surprise crossing his face. "You're still here?"

"You gave me an assignment. I intend to complete it."

He walked over and glanced at her notes. His expression was unreadable. "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

Ethan set the paper bag on her desk. "Chinese. From that place on Fifth. Don't let yourself get run down on my watch."

Then he walked into his office and closed the door.

Emily stared at the bag, confused. Was that... consideration? From the man who'd been nothing but hostile all day? She opened it to find kung pao chicken and fried rice, still warm.

She ate quickly and got back to work, but something had shifted. Maybe Ethan Carter wasn't quite the monster everyone made him out to be.

Or maybe he just didn't want her passing out in his unit. Either way, she wasn't quitting. Not on day one, not ever.

Three days, he'd said. She'd show him what she was made of.

Thursday afternoon arrived faster than Emily expected. She'd barely slept in three days, surviving on coffee and takeout while she analyzed every one of Ethan's thirty-two case files. Her presentation was solid—she knew it was—but her nerves jangled anyway as she set up the conference room.

Ethan walked in at precisely 2:00 PM, followed by Ryan Mitchell and two other senior ADAs, Jessica Chen and Marcus Webb. They all took seats around the table, and Emily caught Ryan giving her an encouraging nod.

"Whenever you're ready, Sullivan," Ethan said, settling back in his chair with that same assessing look he'd worn on her first day.

Emily clicked to her first slide. "I've organized these cases into four categories: ready for trial, needs additional investigation, plea bargain recommended, and dismiss or refer."

For the next forty-five minutes, she walked them through her analysis. She'd found evidentiary gaps in the Morrison fraud case, identified a witness credibility issue in the Chen embezzlement, and flagged three cases where the statute of limitations was uncomfortably close to expiring.

When she finished, the room was silent. Jessica Chen leaned forward. "That analysis of the Morrison case—you caught something our entire team missed. The chain of custody issue with the financial records."

"It's subtle," Emily admitted. "But a good defense attorney will spot it and move to suppress."

"Which would tank our entire case," Marcus added, looking impressed. "Nice work."

Emily's eyes went to Ethan. He was studying her presentation notes, his expression unreadable. Finally, he looked up. "The Henderson case. You recommended dismissal."

"Yes. The witness recanted, and without her testimony—"

"We have the forensic evidence."

"Which is circumstantial at best. Any jury would have reasonable doubt. We'd be wasting resources on a case we can't win."

Ethan's jaw tightened. "Henderson is a repeat offender. This is our chance to put him away."

"Our responsibility is to prosecute cases we can prove beyond reasonable doubt, not to punish people we think are guilty." Emily held his gaze. "Prosecuting a weak case just to get a conviction on the board isn't justice."

The room went very quiet. Ryan's eyes widened slightly—apparently, people didn't usually challenge Ethan Carter directly.

But Ethan surprised her. He leaned back and nodded slowly. "You're right. Refer Henderson back to the detective. If they can build a stronger case, we'll revisit it." He stood up. "Good work, Sullivan. Everyone else, out. Sullivan, stay."

The others filed out, Jessica throwing Emily a sympathetic look. When they were alone, Emily braced herself for whatever was coming.

Ethan walked to the window, hands in his pockets. "That was the most thorough case analysis I've seen from a junior ADA in five years."

Emily blinked. "Thank you?"

"Don't thank me. You did the work." He turned to face her. "I have a case for you. First chair."

"First chair?" Emily's heart jumped. Junior ADAs usually spent months doing second chair before leading a prosecution. "What's the case?"

"Financial fraud. Mid-level executive at a tech startup embezzled two million over three years. Evidence is solid—paper trail, witness testimony, the works. But the defense attorney is good. Very good."

"Who?"

"Olivia Bennett."

Emily knew that name. Bennett was a legend in Seattle defense circles—sharp, aggressive, and she ate inexperienced prosecutors for breakfast. "You're putting me up against Bennett on my first trial?"

"You defended white-collar criminals for three years. You know how they think, how their lawyers operate. Use that." Ethan pulled a file from his briefcase and handed it to her. "Trial starts in two weeks. Think you can handle it?"

It was another test, Emily realized. But this time, it came with an actual opportunity. "Yes."

"Good. Trial prep starts Monday. We'll work together on strategy." He headed for the door, then paused. "And Sullivan? You were right about Henderson. I appreciate people who aren't afraid to disagree with me when it matters."

Over the next two weeks, Emily lived and breathed the Marcus Hamilton fraud case. Marcus Hamilton, a CFO at TechVision Solutions, had systematically diverted funds through shell companies, thinking he was clever enough not to get caught. He wasn't.

Emily worked late every night, often finding Ethan still in his office when she looked up from her desk at midnight. Sometimes he'd appear with coffee and sit down to help her refine her cross-examination strategy. Other times, he'd challenge her arguments, playing devil's advocate until she wanted to throw her files at him.

"Bennett will attack the chain of custody on the financial records," Ethan said one evening, pacing in front of the whiteboard where they'd mapped out the case. "What's your response?"

"We have three separate witnesses who can authenticate the documents. Bennett can't challenge all of them without looking desperate."

"She'll try anyway. What else?"

"The IT specialist who traced the digital transfers. His credentials are impeccable—fifteen years at the FBI before going private sector. Bennett can't shake his expertise."

Ethan nodded. "Good. Now, Hamilton will probably testify. He's arrogant enough to think he can charm the jury. What's your strategy?"

Emily smiled. "Let him talk. Arrogant people always over-explain. I'll give him just enough rope to hang himself."

"Exactly." Ethan stopped pacing and looked at her. "You're ready."

The morning of trial, Emily arrived at the courthouse early. The King County Superior Courthouse was an imposing building, all marble columns and high ceilings, the weight of justice literally built into its architecture.

She found Ethan already in the courtroom, setting up their table. "Nervous?" he asked.

"Terrified," Emily admitted. "But ready."

"Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Overconfidence gets you destroyed."

Olivia Bennett swept in fifteen minutes later—a tall woman in her forties with perfectly styled auburn hair and a suit that probably cost more than Emily's monthly rent. She gave Emily an appraising look and a cool smile. "Emily Sullivan. I heard you'd jumped to the other side. How's it feel to be a do-gooder?"

"Feels like justice," Emily replied evenly.

Bennett laughed. "We'll see how self-righteous you feel after I tear apart your case."

The jury selection took all morning. By afternoon, they were ready for opening statements. Emily stood, her notes in hand but her eyes on the jury—six women, six men, diverse ages and backgrounds. These twelve people would decide Marcus Hamilton's fate.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Emily began, her voice steady despite her racing heart, "this case is about betrayal. Marcus Hamilton was trusted with his company's finances, trusted by his colleagues and employees. And he betrayed that trust systematically, deliberately, and without remorse. Over the next few days, we'll show you exactly how he stole two million dollars, and we'll prove it beyond any reasonable doubt."

She walked them through the evidence, making it clear and simple. No legal jargon, no confusing financial terms—just a straightforward story of theft and deception.

When she sat down, Ethan leaned over. "Excellent. You had them."

Bennett's opening was smooth and polished, arguing that Hamilton was a scapegoat for a failing company, that the real fraud was being committed by the people who'd turned on him to save themselves. It was a good strategy—shift blame, create confusion.

The trial lasted four days. Emily called her witnesses one by one, building her case brick by brick. The company's auditor, the IT specialist, Hamilton's former assistant who'd noticed the irregularities and reported them. Each one solid, each one credible.

Bennett fought hard, but Emily was ready for every tactic. When Bennett tried to confuse the jury with complex financial terms, Emily objected and had the witness explain in simple language. When Bennett attacked the assistant's credibility, Emily had documentation showing the woman had nothing to gain by lying.

On day three, Hamilton took the stand. Just as Emily had predicted, his arrogance showed. He dismissed concerns, over-explained simple questions, and gradually painted himself as someone who thought the rules didn't apply to him.

Emily's cross-examination was surgical. "Mr. Hamilton, you testified that you didn't know these transfers were improper. Is that correct?"

"That's right."

"But you did know that you needed board approval for any transfer over fifty thousand dollars?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And these transfers—" Emily pulled up the financial records on the screen, "—were each over two hundred thousand dollars. Correct?"

Hamilton shifted. "The timing was difficult. I was going to inform the board—"

"After you'd moved the money through three shell companies and into your personal account?"

"It wasn't personal—"

"The account is in your name, registered to your home address, and the withdrawals were used to purchase a vacation home in the San Juan Islands. Is that correct?"

Hamilton's lawyer objected, but the damage was done. The jury had seen it—the moment when his story fell apart.

Closing arguments came on day four. Emily stood before the jury one last time. "Marcus Hamilton bet that he was smarter than everyone else. He bet that he could steal two million dollars and no one would notice. He bet wrong. The evidence is clear, the facts are undeniable. We're asking you to hold him accountable for his betrayal of trust. Thank you."

The jury deliberated for three hours. When they returned, the foreman stood. "We find the defendant guilty on all counts."

Emily felt Ethan's hand briefly squeeze her shoulder—the closest thing to praise she'd ever gotten from him. Across the room, Bennett packed up her briefcase with a grudging nod of respect.

Outside the courtroom, Emily let herself lean against the wall for just a moment, the adrenaline finally draining away.

"You did good work in there," Ethan said, emerging from the courtroom. "Really good."

"I had a good teacher."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something else she couldn't quite identify. "Come on. The team's waiting to celebrate. First round's on me."

As they walked out of the courthouse together, Emily realized something had shifted between them. The adversarial tension from her first day had transformed into something else—mutual respect, professional partnership, maybe even the beginning of friendship.

She had no idea how much more it would become.

Three weeks after the Hamilton trial, Emily's life had settled into a demanding but satisfying rhythm. She'd won her first case, earned Ethan's respect, and was beginning to feel like she actually belonged in the Major Crimes Unit. The other ADAs had started including her in lunch plans, asking her opinion on cases, treating her as a colleague rather than the new kid who might not last.

She was reviewing case files at her desk—which was still by the copier, though Ryan had joked that surviving the Hamilton trial had earned her a promotion to "near the copier"—when Ethan emerged from his office looking particularly stormy.

"Conference room. Now," he said, not just to Emily but to the entire unit.

They filed in, exchanging curious glances. Ethan stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, radiating frustration. "I need to address something. There's been speculation about my personal life, and it's affecting this office's professional atmosphere."

Ryan coughed, trying to hide a smile. Jessica looked fascinated.

"My mother," Ethan continued through gritted teeth, "has apparently told half of Seattle's legal community that I'm 'actively seeking a life partner.'" He said it like he was reading a coroner's report. "This is incorrect. I am not seeking anything except to be left alone to do my job."

"Your mom called Judge Morrison's chambers today," Marcus said helpfully. "Asked if his daughter was still single."

Ethan closed his eyes. "Perfect."

"Also, she stopped by the office earlier," Jessica added. "I think she was... scouting?"

Emily had stayed quiet, but she was starting to understand. "Your mother's trying to set you up."

"Trying is generous. She's conducting a full-scale campaign." Ethan rubbed his temples. "Last month it was the mayor's niece. Before that, a partner at Caldwell & Smith. Yesterday she ambushed me with the daughter of her tennis instructor. I've been on seventeen blind dates in six months."

"That's..." Emily tried to find a diplomatic word. "Persistent."

"It's psychological warfare," Ethan corrected. "She's convinced I'm 'wasting my prime years' on work. Apparently thirty-six is ancient in her view and I need to settle down immediately before I become—and I quote—'an eccentric old bachelor like your Uncle Theodore.'"

Ryan laughed. "Uncle Theodore lives in a mansion with twenty cats and writes mystery novels. He seems happy."

"Exactly my point. But try telling Margaret Carter that her son doesn't need to be married to be fulfilled." Ethan paced to the window. "The worst part is she's escalating. She's threatening to host a dinner party and invite every single woman under forty in Seattle."

"That's definitely psychological warfare," Jessica agreed.

The meeting broke up, everyone heading back to work with a new appreciation for their own families' relative normalcy. Emily returned to her desk, but she couldn't stop thinking about Ethan's situation. She'd caught glimpses of his mother during the Hamilton trial—elegant, formidable, the type of woman who got what she wanted through sheer force of will.

Hours later, Emily was leaving the office—a reasonable nine PM for once—when she found Ethan still at his desk, staring at his phone like it might explode.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

He looked up. "She's texted me twelve times. She's planning a 'casual dinner' on Friday and has somehow compiled a guest list of eligible women that reads like Seattle's most eligible bachelorettes list. Half of them are attorneys. Do you know how awkward it is to have opposing counsel try to make small talk about potential relationships?"

Emily sat down in the chair across from his desk. "Have you told her to stop?"

"Repeatedly. She thinks I'm being stubborn. In her mind, my reluctance is evidence that I need her help more than ever." He set his phone down. "I've tried everything. Reason, anger, avoidance. Nothing works."

"What you need," Emily said slowly, an idea forming, "is to make her stop thinking you're available."

"Short of moving to another country, I'm open to suggestions."

"Get married."

Ethan stared at her. "What?"

"Not really," Emily clarified quickly. "But if your mother thought you were married, she'd have to stop the blind date ambushes. She couldn't very well introduce you to eligible women if you had a wife."

"You're suggesting I lie to my mother."

"I'm suggesting a temporary solution to a persistent problem." Emily leaned forward, warming to the idea. "Think about it. A fake marriage, just for show. Long enough to get her off your back. Six months, maybe a year. Then you could get quietly divorced and she'd be too embarrassed by the 'failure' to start the matchmaking again."

Ethan was quiet for a long moment. "That's either brilliant or insane."

"Could be both."

"And who exactly would I fake marry? I'd need someone convincing, someone my mother would believe—" He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "You."

Emily's heart jumped. "What? No, I wasn't suggesting—"

"It makes perfect sense. We work together, we've been spending long hours on cases. My mother's seen you at the courthouse. She already thinks you're competent and professional—her two favorite qualities besides wealthy and well-connected." Ethan stood up, pacing now. "It would work."

"That's crazy."

"Crazy would be enduring another year of my mother's matchmaking." He turned to face her. "Think about it, Sullivan. What do you have to lose?"

"My professional reputation? My credibility? My sanity?"

"Your professional reputation would be fine. If anything, people would take you more seriously—unfortunately, marriage still conveys a certain gravitas in legal circles." He was fully in prosecutor mode now, making his case. "As for credibility, we'd keep it professional. No one needs to know it's not real except us. And your sanity—consider this your revenge for all the coffee runs and impossible deadlines I gave you the first week."

Emily should say no. This was absurd, impulsive, exactly the kind of complicated mess she'd come to Seattle to avoid. But she found herself considering it. She had her own reasons for wanting to appear unavailable—a persistent ex-boyfriend back in DC who hadn't quite grasped that "no" meant no, for one. And the idea of playing house with Ethan Carter, of getting an inside look at the life of Seattle's most eligible bachelor turned fake husband...

"We'd need rules," she heard herself say. "Clear boundaries. A contract."

Ethan's expression shifted to something like triumph. "Naturally. We're lawyers. We'll draft it properly."

"Separate bedrooms. No one can know it's fake—the whole point is to make it convincing."

"Agreed. One year maximum. After that, quiet divorce, we go our separate ways."

"And if your mother doesn't back off even after the marriage?"

"She will. She's many things, but she respects the institution of marriage. Once I'm 'taken,' she'll redirect her meddling energy to my cousins."

Emily stood up. This was crazy. Absolutely crazy. "I need to think about it."

"Of course. Take tonight. Let me know tomorrow." Ethan walked her to the elevator. "For what it's worth, Sullivan, I think we could make this work. We're both practical people. We can handle a simple arrangement."

As Emily rode the elevator down, her mind was racing. A year of fake marriage to her demanding boss. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything, probably. But as she walked to her car through the cool Seattle night, she found herself seriously considering it. And by the time she got home, she'd already started mentally drafting contract terms.

The next morning, Emily arrived at work early. She'd spent half the night making a list of conditions and concerns, and the other half wondering if she'd lost her mind. Ethan was already in his office, of course, and when he saw her, he raised an eyebrow.

Emily took a deep breath and walked in, closing the door behind her. "I'll do it. But we do this right—legal contract, clear terms, absolute discretion."

Ethan's smile was the first genuinely warm one she'd ever seen from him. "Deal. Let's draft the terms over lunch."

They spent the lunch hour in a private conference room at a restaurant across from the courthouse, hammering out details like they were negotiating a settlement. Separate bedrooms. No physical relationship beyond what was necessary for public appearances. Equal division of household expenses. Clear exit strategy after one year. Either party could terminate early with thirty days notice.

"This feels very unromantic," Emily said as they reviewed the typed document.

"That's the point. This is a business arrangement, not a relationship." Ethan signed the bottom. "Though we'll need to make the public appearances convincing. My mother has a sixth sense for anything fake."

"How convincing?"

"Hand-holding. The occasional show of affection. Nothing over the top, just enough to appear like a real couple." He handed her the pen. "Still in?"

Emily signed her name. "Still in. Though I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when this inevitably gets complicated."

"Noted." Ethan folded the contract and put it in his briefcase. "Now, we need a story. How did we get together?"

They spent the next hour crafting their narrative—late nights working on cases had turned into genuine connection, they'd tried to keep it professional but feelings had developed, they'd decided to give it a shot outside of work. It was close enough to the truth to be believable, just missing the actual feelings part.

"When do we tell people?" Emily asked.

"Tonight. There's a benefit dinner for the Legal Aid Society. Half the legal community will be there, including my mother. We'll arrive together, announce we're dating, and by Monday the whole courthouse will know."

"That fast?"

"Might as well rip the bandaid off. Besides, my mother's dinner party is Friday. If we're going to derail it, we need to move now."

Emily nodded, feeling the reality of what they'd agreed to settling over her. "Okay. Tonight then. I should go home and find something appropriate to wear."

"Something that says 'serious relationship' but not 'desperate,'" Ethan suggested, then caught her glare. "Not that you would. Just—you know what, I'll stop talking."

"Good plan."

That evening, Emily stood in front of her closet having a minor crisis. She'd been to plenty of legal functions, but this felt different. Tonight she wasn't just Assistant District Attorney Emily Sullivan. Tonight she was Ethan Carter's girlfriend, soon to be fake fiancée, eventual fake wife.

She chose a deep navy dress—elegant, professional, with just enough style to look like she'd made an effort. Simple jewelry, her hair down instead of in its usual bun. When Ethan picked her up at seven, his expression suggested she'd made the right choice.

"You look nice," he said.

"You sound surprised."

"I'm not. I've just only ever seen you in work mode." He was in a tuxedo, and Emily had to admit he cleaned up well. "Ready for this?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The benefit was held at the Four Seasons, the ballroom glittering with Seattle's legal elite. Emily spotted judges, defense attorneys, other prosecutors, and—standing near the bar in a spectacular silver gown—Margaret Carter.

"There's my mother," Ethan murmured. "Game face on."

He took Emily's hand, and they crossed the room together. Margaret saw them coming, her face lighting up with curiosity as she registered her son holding hands with a woman she recognized.

"Ethan! And Emily Sullivan, isn't it? We met at that fraud trial." Margaret's eyes dropped to their joined hands. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Ethan squeezed Emily's hand. "Mom, Emily and I are dating. It's recent, but it's serious."

Margaret's expression cycled through surprise, delight, and calculation in about three seconds. "Dating! How wonderful! How long has this been going on?"

"A few weeks," Emily said, finding her voice. "We wanted to keep it quiet at first, given that we work together."

"Of course, of course. Oh, this is wonderful! I had no idea—well, I should have known something was different. You've been less cranky lately, Ethan." Margaret beamed at them both. "You must come to dinner this week. Both of you. I want to hear everything."

As Margaret hurried off—presumably to tell everyone she knew—Emily and Ethan exchanged a look.

"That went well," Emily said.

"Too well. She's planning the wedding in her head already."

"Speaking of which, how long before we make this official?"

Ethan considered. "A month? Fast enough to convince her it's real, not so fast it seems suspicious."

"A month," Emily repeated. One month until she became Mrs. Ethan Carter, at least on paper.

She was definitely going to regret this.