Prologue
There's a certain ache that lives in the space between almost and never. A quiet kind of heartbreak that doesn't come from losing something, but from never having the courage to reach for it in the first place. Harvey Specter had spent his life mastering timing — in the courtroom, in negotiations, in the art of reading a room before a single word was spoken.
But timing, he learned too late, meant nothing when it came to love. Love didn't wait for the perfect moment. It didn't sit on the sidelines while you figured yourself out. And by the time he realized Donna wasn't just the one person who truly saw him, but the one he couldn't imagine a life without — she'd already walked away. Not in anger. Not with bitterness. Just with quiet acceptance.
Because even the strongest hearts grow tired of waiting for someone to catch up.