~Halle's POV~
I adjusted the stack of notes on my desk, the soft hum of the city traffic filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my downtown office. It was one of those crisp autumn afternoons in Chicago, where the skyline pierced the gray sky like jagged teeth, and the wind whispered promises of change.
My practice was on the 22nd floor of a sleek high-rise, all glass and steel, a sanctuary for the broken and the burdened. I'd built this space to be calming, neutral tones on the walls, a plush leather armchair for clients, a matching sofa for me, and that wide oak desk that separated the professional from the personal.
But today, as I glanced at the clock, my stomach twisted with something unfamiliar.
Anticipation? No, that wasn't right.
I was a professional. Twenty-eigh
