THE PROSECUTORS: An Accidental Love Story

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.