Chapter 11
“Lance, wait!” I race down the sidewalk, my heels clacking against the concrete as I chase him. He’s already a full block away from Brewed Awakening, his shoulders set in a rigid line that screams displeasure without him having to say a word.
But maybe, just maybe, I can still salvage this disaster of an evening.
I catch up to him. “I’m so sorry about what happened back there,” I manage, the apology scraping out rougher than I want it to.
He stops and turns to face me, and I can tell his ego is a little bruised. “Seems to me like you two have a lot to figure out,” he says flatly.
“It’s not like that at all.” The last thing I need is another man thinking I came back to Maplewood Springs to play a reunion tour with my ex. “I had no idea he was going to show up, though I should have predicted as much. Jake has always had a knack for the worst possible timing.”
We fall into step again, our shoes scuffing the pavement on our way home.
“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 and the 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 with faint 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.
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 na?ve 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.