“I came back to start something new,” I tell him. “A new career. A new life.” This time, my voice doesn’t wobble—because that part is true. “Don’t worry about Jake. He’s just…” I shake my head. “A complication I didn’t ask for.”
Lance’s expression remains skeptical, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“I’ll tell him to stay away,” I add. “For real this time.”
As we round the corner, Lance pauses and pivots to face me, his gaze intensifying in the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “Let me tell you what I’m worried about. Your ex coming back into your life.” One finger lifts my chin, ensuring our eyes meet. “I’m a selfish man, Sarah. I don’t want to share you with anyone.”
His words strike deep, a spark catching in my chest, spinning outward in wild, golden spirals. God, how long has it been since someone looked at me like I was worth the mess, the fight, the trouble?
Too long.
Far too long.
“We could have a redo,” I offer. “Just the two of us. No Jake. No interruptions. I’m talking top-secret location, maximum romance, zero ex-boyfriend interference. Guaranteed.”
As we resume walking, he asks, “Can you honestly tell me you feel nothing for him anymore?”
My stomach clenches. Memories rush back with hurricane force—that devastating afternoon before I left for New York, Jake’s cold eyes as he said he didn’t love me anymore, that whatever feelings he’d had simply evaporated. Such a piss-poor explanation that left my heart in tatters.
There’s so much left unsaid between him and me. I can’t bring myself to lie to Lance.
My silence stretches too long.
“That’s what I thought,” Lance says softly as we approach our apartment building.
He slips inside while I linger at the entrance, sighing deeply. I never really got closure with Jake. In New York, I buried myself in schoolwork until my fingers cramped and my eyes burned, anything to distract from the hollow ache in my chest.
I’d have to confront him eventually.
My nails suffer beneath my anxious picking as I toy with the notion of waiting outside for Jake, rehearsing the conversations I should have had long ago. But my mind refuses to come up with a single good line. I’ve never been good at handling emotional trauma. I’ve only ever been good at hiding it.
Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea after all. Better to stick with what’s worked in the past.
Instead of wasting precious minutes waiting for a conversation I’m not prepared to have, I head back to my apartment, already assembling a list of marketing concepts for the Étoile campaign. Nothing smothers unwanted feelings quite like hurling myself headfirst into a project with a looming deadline.
I wake up with my cheek glued to the keyboard of my laptop, a small puddle of drool flooding the keys. Perfect. My eyelids feel like they’re coated in sandpaper, scratching against my eyeballs with every blink as I squint at my apartment’s cheap wall clock. One hour until corporate imprisonment begins.
Frantically, I wipe my face and the tacky keys with a tissue, wincing as my fingers skim the ridges the keyboard has stamped into my cheek, silently praying they fade before I arrive at Lantern Bridge.
My open notebook sits beside me, its pages filled with last night’s chaotic brainstorming. Between the coffee stains andthe doodles of perfume bottles with wings, which had seemed brilliant at two in the morning, my real ideas lurk in the margins like shy wallflowers. Not exactly award-winning, but it’s a start.
I stuff everything into my bag while simultaneously brushing my teeth, a talent I perfected during college. Toothpaste dribbles down my chin as I hop around, one leg in my pants, the other kicking at a shoe that’s somehow migrated under my bed.
By the time I burst through Lanter Bridge’s revolving doors, my mind is already buzzing with thoughts of Timeless Elegance. Our mission is simple: create a campaign that cuts through a market so drenched in luxury ads that another glossy perfume bottle might send the entire public into a decorative coma. No pressure at all.
In the center of the lobby, a cluster of my teammates has formed a huddle. I spot Wendy at the edge of the group and move toward her.
“What’s going on?” I ask, adjusting the strap of my bag.
Wendy shrugs, her dark curls bouncing with the motion. “No idea. But apparently, we’re going somewhere to brainstorm.”
A field trip? That’s new. Before I can press for details, Jake materializes in front of the group, looking unfairly well-rested and put-together. My hand flies to my cheek, instinctively covering the keyboard indentations even though they’re gone by now.
“Good morning, everyone,” he announces, his voice carrying a brightness that makes me want to scream in his face for what he did yesterday. “It’s too beautiful of a day to be cooped up inside. So, we’re heading to a rooftop lounge a few blocks from here. Fresh air, great views—perfect for getting the creative juices flowing.”
Twenty minutes later, we take our seats in the lounge, which offers panoramic views of Maplewood Springs. A soft breeze carries the scent of coffee from a barista station, mingling withfaint hints of lavender and rosemary from planters dotting the perimeter. Comfortable seating areas cluster around wooden tables, and the morning sun casts a golden glow over everything.
“I wish we could work here every day,” Wendy whispers beside me, her eyes wide.
