Chapter 2
Mark
The glass doors of Pacific Edge Legal Group gleamed under the crisp morning light, the firm’s name etched in bold, silver lettering above them. Mark pushed through the entrance, the familiar scent of fresh coffee and polished wood filling his senses. The hum of conversation from attorneys and paralegals drifted through the air, mingling with the rhythmic tapping of keyboards and the occasional ring of a phone.
This place was his foundation, his constant . While the rest of his life had been derailed by grief, Pacific Edge remained unchanged—a machine that functioned with or without him, but one he had poured himself into nonetheless. His fellow partners respected him, the associates looked up to him, and the staff… well, they kept him from falling apart without even knowing it.
He adjusted his cufflinks as he moved through the main hallway, nodding at a few colleagues along the way.
“Morning, Mark,” Adam, a junior associate, greeted him, juggling a stack of case files.
“Morning, Adam,” Mark replied, nodding as he passed.
The firm had a sleek, modern design—minimalist but warm, with dark walnut accents, floor-to-ceiling windows that let in natural light, and custom artwork that reflected the town’s coastal charm. Offices lined the hall, their doors half-open, the murmur of legal discussions spilling into the corridors.
Mark turned the final corner toward his office, bracing himself for the force of nature waiting at his door.
Diana.
His executive assistant leaned against the frame, arms crossed, her expression one of pure exasperation. The bright red planner clutched in her hands was her weapon of choice—one she wielded with terrifying efficiency.
She arched a brow. “Your Majesty, so glad you could grace us with your presence.”
Mark smirked as he stepped past her into his office. “I prefer Your Honor , actually.”
“Oh, I bet you do ,” she shot back, following him inside and flipping open the planner. “Alright, let’s see how much of your time I need to micromanage today.”
Mark set his briefcase on the desk and loosened his tie just slightly, sinking into his chair. His office was spacious but understated—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, filled with case law, legal theory, and a few old classics Jessica had loved. A large window overlooked the coastline, the sea stretching endlessly beyond the glass. His desk, always meticulously arranged, held a few framed photographs, some neatly stacked case files, and a small bronze statue of Lady Justice that had been a gift from Jessica.
Diana leaned against the desk, tapping her pen against her planner. “Alright, Your Honor, let’s talk about your week. Thursday, you have court. Friday, mediation. Today, two client calls in the afternoon. And” she paused for effect, her smirk widening, “I hired a handyman to finish the built-ins in your living room.”
Mark, who had been absently glancing through a case file, immediately looked up. “You what ?”
Diana barely blinked. “I took care of it.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Without asking me?”
She crossed her arms. “You’ve been avoiding it for four years, Mark. Four years. You either needed to do it yourself or let someone else handle it. And let’s be honest, we both know you were never going to do it yourself.”
Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Diana—”
“Before you protest,” she interrupted smoothly, “he’s a licensed contractor. Linda Skeens recommended him, and he’s working late in the afternoons, so you won’t even have to see him. I met him at the house and instructed him that he is only to stay go into the living room, the bathroom, and the kitchen areas. He’ll be out of your house by eight. Minimal disruption. You won’t even know he’s there.”
Mark exhaled, rubbing his hand down his beard. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it—he did. But having someone in his space, in the home that still felt like Jessica’s, unsettled him.
Diana’s voice softened just slightly. “Mark, the house isn’t a museum.”
His jaw tensed. “I know that.”
She studied him, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Then let me help you live in it again.”
He looked away, flexing his fingers against the desk before sighing. “Fine. But if he so much as moves a book, I’m calling you at two in the morning.”
She grinned. “Oh, please. Like I don’t already expect that.”
Mark shook his head, reaching for his coffee as Diana flipped to the next page of her planner.
“Oh, and before I forget,” she continued, “how are your sessions with Dr. Martin going?”
The warmth of the coffee in his hands did nothing to ease the sudden tension in his chest. He set the mug down, keeping his face carefully neutral. “They’re fine.”
Diana tilted her head, studying him.
Mark forced a smirk. “Worried about me?”
She closed her planner with a snap, leveling him with a look. “Always.”
He should’ve brushed it off and should’ve given her some snarky remark in return. But for all the years they had worked together, Diana had never pried in a way that made him feel exposed. She simply let him be .
Which is why he allowed the conversation to end there.
The tension in the room shifted as the deep, familiar voice of James Calloway, the senior partner, echoed from the hall.
“Jensen! Tell me you’re ready for this weekend.”
Mark smirked, already knowing where this was going.
“If by ‘ready,’ you mean prepared to watch Oregon demolish Oregon State, then yeah, I’m ready.”
Calloway scoffed as he stepped into the office, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Big talk for a Ducks fan. You know the Beavers are going to run you off the field.”
Mark leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “You wish. ”
Diana, never one to miss a moment, sighed dramatically. “Every year. Every damn year. You two act like your personal happiness depends on the outcome of this game.”
Calloway grinned. “Because it does.”
Mark chuckled, shaking his head as Calloway clapped him on the shoulder.
“We’ll see, Jensen,” the senior partner said as he turned toward the hall. “We’ll see.”
As soon as he was gone, Diana rolled her eyes. “Men and their football.”
Mark smirked. “Jealous we have something fun to look forward to?”
She snorted. “Jealous? No. Tired of hearing about it? Absolutely.”
She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and try not to cry when the Ducks lose.”
Mark arched a brow. “Try not to cry when I replace you with an AI assistant.”
She winked. “You’d be lost without me.”
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him in the quiet of his office. Mark exhaled, his gaze drifting to the framed photos on the wall.
One in particular caught his eye.
A picture of him and Jessica crossing the finish line of a triathlon, both breathless, victorious—alive.
His throat tightened.
He stepped closer, tracing his finger along the glass.
“I love you,” he whispered.
The mask he wore was flawless. But in this moment, alone in his office, it cracked—just enough for the grief to slip through.