I nod, momentarily caught off guard by the mountains hazed in the distance. Then the reality of pitching ideas in front of Jake, in front of everyone, snaps me back to earth like a bungee cord pulled taut.
Jake gathers us around a long wooden table, his smile easy as he waits for everyone to settle. “Alright, team. As you know, this campaign is a huge opportunity. Étoile Perfumes is a powerhouse brand, and Beatrice Castellano’s new line could be a game-changer. We need something innovative, something that will leave a lasting impression.” His grin widens, eyes sweeping the group before snagging on me a half-second too long. “And who knows? Maybe nailing this project will open some exciting doors for all of us.”
The brainstorming begins, ideas ricocheting across the table like pinballs, some sparking with promise, others thudding down with all the impact of a deflated balloon. Amanda suggests highlighting the bottle design.
When my turn comes, my throat constricts as all eyes fall on me. But I didn’t drool all over my laptop for nothing. I open my notebook.
“So,” I flip to the right page, “I was thinking we could put a spin on influencer marketing. Instead of standard unboxing videos, we create a VIP experience where influencers receive personalized packages tailored to their brand and personality. Each package highlights how Timeless Elegance reflects their unique style.”
The team watches me, expressions varying from polite interest to outright skepticism. Amanda’s eyebrow arche especially high.
“The twist?” I continue. “Every perfume bottle includes a QR code that links to an immersive virtual reality experience. Consumers can explore the luxury world of Timeless Elegance—places like Paris, Venice, Monte Carlo—all from their phones or VR devices. It’s about transporting them into the lifestyle of the perfume.”
The table falls silent. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and for a terrifying moment, I’m certain I’ve just professionally face-planted in front of everyone.
Then Jake’s smile breaks through the tension. “That’s brilliant, Sarah. I love it.”
My breath catches at his unexpected praise. Around the table, nods and murmurs of agreement ripple through the group. Even Amanda gives a reluctant tilt of her head that might, if you squint hard enough, pass for approval.
“Well,” Jake says, leaning back in his chair, “it looks like we’ve found our direction.” His eyes meet mine across the table, his expression warm with something that looks dangerously like pride and far too close to how he used to look at me years ago.
My defenses wobble for a dangerous second before I look away. One good idea doesn’t erase history. His smile might be genuine, but so was my heartbreak. I refuse to be that naïve girl again, the one who handed over her heart like it was a party favor. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I’ll need therapy I can’t afford.
The days that follow are a whirlwind of coffee-fueled planning sessions, marker-stained fingers, and the infectious buzz of creativity that hums through our office. Our team attacks the Étoile campaign like it’s our collective ticket to marketing heaven—which, honestly, it might be.
Afternoons stretch into late evenings as we huddle around whiteboards, our ideas sprawling across the glossy surface in a riot of dry-erase color. In the conference room, Jake movesaround the table with easy confidence, sleeves rolled up, focus unwavering as he sketches concepts and jots notes with quick, sure strokes. Leadership suits him. He’s not the aimless, indecisive teenager anymore, the one who used to bristle when I talked about my plans after high school, like my dreams were an offense.
But look at him now. Maybe some of what I said lodged beneath his skin. Why else would he choose marketing?
It’s surprising, the ease between us as we work, like slipping into an old sweater I’d forgotten I owned, soft and familiar in all the wrong ways. Every idea I pitch, he builds on. Every challenge he throws my way, I solve. Together, we shape something neither of us could have managed alone, and I hate how natural it feels, how seamless, as if the four years between us never happened. As if he never broke me.
Across the room, Amanda watches our exchanges intensely, her lips pressed into a thin line whenever Jake leans closer to examine my notes. Though she never says anything directly, her disapproval radiates like heat from asphalt in August. I have a distinct feeling that if it wasn’t for the no-office romance rule Judy has imposed upon us all, she’d be all over Jake. I do my best to stay out of her way, which seems to work.
With mock-up photoshoots scheduled back-to-back, we barely have time to breathe between setups. Jake commands the room, directing photographers and models with a quiet authority that draws everyone’s attention. His eyes light up when the perfect shot comes together.
Against my better judgment, I find myself smiling back. It’s strangely satisfying—us working together. There’s no time to reminisce about the past. Our focus on the task at hand is unwavering.
By Friday evening, we’ve hit our first major milestone, and Jake suggests celebrating at The Rustic Oak, one of the moreraucous bars downtown. The team eagerly agrees, collectively exhaling the tension we’ve been carrying all week.
At the bar, warm amber light spills across dark wooden tables as our team unwinds, cocktail glasses clinking in celebratory toasts. Perched on a stool beside Wendy, I nurse my third gin and tonic, the tart bite catching at the back of my throat. My gaze drifts to Jake for the fifth, or maybe fifteenth, time, watching him talk to girls.
“All right, spill it,” Wendy nudges me, her knowing smirk caught in the bar’s soft glow. “What’s the deal with you two? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because that’s the fourth time you’ve stared at him in the last five minutes.”
“What?” Heat floods my cheeks, and I drop my eyes to my drink, twirling the lime wedge with my straw. “There’s no deal. Absolutely zero deals happening.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m secretly a unicorn.” She takes a sip of her cocktail, eyebrow raised.
With a defeated sigh, I slump against the bar lid. “Fine. We were high school sweethearts. The whole nine yards, matching prom outfits, sneaking out to meet at midnight, planning our future together.”
“So what happened?”
“He broke my heart.” The words scrape my throat, still sharp after all this time. “Lousy goodbye. Said I never mattered. Just…out of nowhere. I even went to his mom’s house like some pathetic, lovesick teenager, only to be turned away.”
Wendy’s eyes widen. “Seriously? He never even told you why he did it?”
“Nope.” Another gulp burns down my throat, the bitter taste fitting the memory a little too well. “Guys are selfish, Wendy. Always have been, always will be. When they look at us, they want only one thing.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “Not all guys, Sarah.”
