My phone notifies me with a calendar reminder.Orientation, 9 AM.
Panic flutters in my stomach as I rush to shower and dress. What if I'm not ready? What if Northwestern realizes they made a mistake hiring me?
The hospital orientationroom hums with voices. Name tags, handshakes, forced smiles. I fumble throughintroductions, nodding too much, laughing too loud. Everyone seems more qualified, more confident.
"God, your smile looks painful. First day nerves, or are you secretly planning our murders?"
I turn to find a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper grin. Her name tag readsGemma Alvarez.
"Is it that obvious?" Heat creeps up my neck.
"Relax, we’re all impostors here." She leans closer, stage-whispering, "Even Dr. Harrison, who’s managed to say ‘Harvard’ seven times in five minutes."
A real laugh bursts out of me, loosening the tight knot in my chest.
She glances at my badge. “Operations. Nice. I’m in planning. Same track, different side of the chessboard. We’ll be bumping into each other a lot.”
By lunchtime, we’re tucked into a cafeteria booth, trading stories over lukewarm coffee and cafeteria fries. She’s from San Antonio, moved up for grad school, finishing her last year while juggling fellowship rotations. She curses like a sailor, reads people in seconds, and makes me laugh harder than I have in months.
For the first time since I landed in Chicago, I feel like I might actually belong. Maybe I can do this. Maybe this city reallycouldbe my fresh start.
I look out the window at the skyline—sharp, electric, nothing like Palm Beach. This city will swallow my secrets whole. Work will keep me busy. Gemma will keep me grounded.
And Warren Carter will stay exactly where he belongs: in the past.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
FOUR
Warren
The words on the page blur together. I blink hard, and try to refocus.
"The parties hereby agree to establish a mutual co-parenting schedule wherein..."
My pen glides over the legal pad, the motion so practiced I barely need to watch the words form. Custody motions are my bread and butter. I've mastered the delicate art of dividing a child's life into percentages and visitation days.
"Kaley, add a clause about holiday rotations. Christmas Eve with mother, Christmas Day with father, alternating years."
My assistant nods from the doorway, disappearing with quiet efficiency. The office falls silent again, just the steady hum of my PC tower and the garbled mix of downtown Palm Beach outside my window.
I roll my neck, feeling vertebrae pop. Three cases today, two more tomorrow. A familiar rhythm that usually centers me.
But today...
Her fingertips trace down my chest, eyes half-lidded in the glow of dying embers.
I slam my coffee mug down onto my desk. Cold liquid sloshes over papers.
"Damn it."
Just over a week. It's been eight days since I left her bedroom with the sunrise, since I muttered that pathetic line about mistakes. Eight days of perfectly constructed normalcy while my skin seems three sizes too small.
I grab tissues and blot the spill mechanically.
A new client file awaits. I look at the nicely typed sticker on the tab. It almost seems too tidy for the ugly battle that resides inside the folder. The Brennans are fighting over who gets their eight-year-old on weekends.
More broken promises, more family lines redrawn. My specialty: helping people navigate the wreckage when love collapses.