Time doesn't heal all wounds. It doesn't erase betrayal, nor does it soften the blow of what could've been. But it does teach you how to walk with pain — until one day, you stop limping and realize you've been standing tall for a while.
Alister Crane knew this all too well.
He stood by the glass wall of his new office, looking out over the city. The sunlight danced off steel and glass towers, the hum of life buzzing far below him. His hand cradled a cup of black coffee — his third that morning.
Six months.
Six months since the courtroom. Since that final moment when he and Sarah became strangers with shared memories.
Six months since he walked out of Reyes & Stan and into the unknown.
And now, here he stood — not broken, not triumphant, but alive. And fighting.
The Leap
Starting a law firm in one of the most competitive cities in the country wasn't just ambitious — it was madness. The legal field was saturated with legacy firms, generational names etched into polished wood doors and courtroom whispers.
But Alister had learned something valuable during the collapse of his marriage.
Stability meant nothing if you were shackled to it.
And so, two months after his divorce, he filed paperwork to establish his own firm:
Crane Legal.
Not a large operation. Not yet.
A sleek corner office in a restored Art Deco building downtown. Minimalist interiors. Three associates, one paralegal, and a receptionist named Marcy, who ran the place with more authority than Alister himself.
The first month was a storm of sleepless nights and bottomless coffee cups. Bills, permits, vendor issues, marketing strategy, and networking—all while juggling existing clients and whispering reassurances to himself that this wasn't madness, this was momentum.
The second month bled into the third. Some cases fell through. A few clients ghosted. But Alister kept going. One brief at a time. One referral at a time. He didn't shy away from the grind.
It was the escape.
When people asked how he was doing, he'd smile and say, "Building something."What he never added was: "Because everything else fell apart."
He poured his grief into structure. Into schedules. Into motion.
And slowly, it began to work.
By month four, they were pulling in a steady stream of clients—small businesses, individual cases, and a few criminal defense jobs that Alister handled with terrifying precision.
By month five, the firm's name was being tossed around in legal forums and mixers.
And now, in month six, Crane Legal Group was climbing. Slowly. Quietly.
But unmistakably.
The Man in the Mirror
Alister's reflection caught in the glass.
He barely recognized himself sometimes.
He had grown leaner, sharper. The late nights and emotional solitude had carved subtle edges into his once-soft demeanor. His tailored navy suit clung to a body no longer carrying emotional weight — just muscle, focus, and willpower.
His beard was trimmed to stubble now. His hair swept back with calculated nonchalance.
But it was his eyes that had changed the most.
Still dark. Still intense.
But colder.
Not cruel — just… watchful. Measured. A man who had learned what love could cost.
In the mornings, he woke at 5:00 a.m. Went for runs. Cold showers. Black coffee. Case files.
The rituals kept him grounded.
He had no time to date. Not that he wanted to.
He'd gone out a few times — mostly at the urging of Marcus and some friends from his previous firm. Once with a model-slash-influencer who spent most of the night taking selfies. Once with a fellow attorney who clearly thought it was a career move. Once with someone kind, thoughtful, beautiful — and he ghosted her after the second dinner.
Not because she did anything wrong.
But because he realized halfway through dessert that he hadn't felt a single thing.
No flutter. No spark.
Just politeness.
Just routine.
He wasn't ready.
And maybe, he thought, he never would be. Not in the same way. Not again.
He didn't want to love like a boy anymore.
He wanted to build like a man.
Office Life
Marcy poked her head in around 11:30 a.m.
"You have the Walker consult at noon. Want me to reschedule your lunch again?"
Alister looked up from the folder. "No, I'll eat at my desk. Just grab me whatever you're getting."
"Turkey sandwich with mustard and regret. Got it."
He smirked. "Thanks, Marcy."
She winked. "That's why you pay me the big bucks."
Behind her sarcasm, he saw the truth — Marcy cared. She'd joined the firm after working twenty years at a larger agency and told him during the interview: "I'm tired of giants. I want to help build something with a soul."
She reminded him of his mother in a strange way. Tough love, dry wit, warm eyes.
It helped, more than he admitted.
He returned to his files.
The Walker case was straightforward. Trademark dispute. But Alister handled even the smallest cases with the same meticulous detail he gave to major litigation.
His reputation demanded it.
And he was earning that reputation now — not borrowing it from his last firm, or coasting on mentor relationships.
Crane Legal was his blood, sweat, and strategy.
And all he needed now… was a spark. A real case.
The kind that could make or break reputations.
The kind people whispered about over dinner in elite restaurants.
The kind that got your face on headlines.
He wasn't desperate for fame. He just knew what it would mean.
Validation.
That he made the right call.
That walking away from comfort and tradition and safety was worth it.
That building something from ash could actually rise like a phoenix.
He leaned back in his chair, closing the file, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
Maybe something big was coming.
Maybe not.
But either way… he was ready.
Six Months Sober of Her
Sarah hadn't crossed his mind in weeks.
And when she did, it was just a shadow—not a wound.
He didn't hate her. Not anymore.
He didn't miss her either.
The pain had faded, replaced by clarity.
She had taught him something, in the cruelest way: never pour yourself into someone with cracks they refuse to seal.
He remembered the way she cried that day in court.
And the look in her eyes — devastation mixed with understanding.
But he had nothing left to give her. Not sympathy. Not comfort.
Some bridges shouldn't be rebuilt.
And that was okay.
One Last Look Back
That morning, he found himself looking through an old box he'd left at Marcus's place. His brother had brought it over last week — "Stuff from your old house. Figured you'd want it or want to burn it."
Inside were photographs. Mementos.
College graduation. His first briefcase. Letters from law school peers. And tucked in the bottom — a sketch.
One of Sarah's.
From their early days. Before the wedding. She'd drawn him once, asleep with books on his chest, a pen dangling from his fingers. The caption in her loopy handwriting read:
"My brilliant future. My safe place."
He stared at it for a while.
Then folded it back up and placed it in a sealed envelope marked "Past."
Not to destroy.
Just to set down.
He didn't need to carry it anymore.
It was 2:37 p.m.
Alister had just returned from a meeting with a tech startup. Promising, but not explosive. The kind of case that paid well, but didn't stir headlines.
He was standing by the window again, coffee in hand, when it happened.
A knock.
Three short raps on the frosted glass of his office door.
Not aggressive. Not timid. Just… decisive.
He turned.
"Come in."
The door creaked open.
And in stepped someone unfamiliar.
Alister's brows drew together. "Can I help you?"
The figure stepped forward, briefcase in hand, tailored coat, eyes sharp.
The kind of client you didn't get every day.
"I hope so," the man said, voice calm. "I was told you're the man to talk to when something sensitive needs handling."
Alister nodded slowly, motioning to the seat across from his desk.
What he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that this case, this moment, would be the inflection point.
"Let's talk."