The lobby of the medical arts building was a study in quiet desperation. A woman clutched a sleeping toddler, dark circles under her eyes. An elderly man stared blankly at a potted fiddle – leaf fig. We were just another broken thing here for repairs.
Dr. Alisha Vance’s office was on the fourth floor. The elevator ride was a silent, humming ascent into judgment. Leo stood beside me, our shoulders not touching, his cologne—the same scent he’d worn to the hotel—now felt like an accusation in the confined space. I watched the digital numbers climb, my stomach a tight knot of dread. This was it. The final, humiliating admission of failure. We were paying a stranger to witness our ruin.
The door was unassuming. Alisha Vance, LMFT. Leo knocked, a sound too loud in the hushed hallway.
She open
