The morning sunlight crept through the half open curtains, touching the quiet corners of their apartment with a lazy warmth. The coffee pot hissed on the counter, filling the air with a scent that belonged to comfort and habit. Violet leaned against the counter, barefoot, her hair tied up loosely, reading through the list of RSVPs for Haven’s opening.

Every name meant something. Every name was a story — donors, patients, old friends, strangers who believed in what she built. Yet one name, typed in neat, elegant script at the bottom, made her pulse hitch.

Rebecca Sloane.

Her fingers stilled on the paper.

Of course she’d show up.

Bryan walked...