Rain smears the skyline of the Back Bay into a charcoal wash. Renée Asher stands at her window, the glass humming with the low vibration of the city fifty floors below. She is forty-one, contained, and has spent the last decade building a reputation as a woman who can untangle the messiest of lives without ever snagging her own silk sleeves. Her desk is a desert of polished mahogany, featuring only a fountain pen and a thin, glowing monitor.
She takes her seat, the wool of her blazer shifting with a quiet, expensive rasp. It is a morning for precision. Her brother Joel had called earlier, his voice tight with some academic worry she’d tuned out, leaving her to the silence she prefers. She taps the touchscreen to bring up the day’s docket. The grid is orderly until her eyes snag on the ten thirty slot—the only vacancy she had left for a priority referral from the firm’s partners.
Her breath hitches, a small, involuntary fracture in her composure. The name on the digital header isn't just a client; it is a ghost she has spent ten years exorcising from her sleep. Caleb Donnelly. The cursor blinks over the appointment as the letters of his name begin to resolve on the incoming client file.
