The city never slept. But tonight, it felt like Lena Hart did.
The hum of Verdanne's nightlife pulsed beyond her apartment window—car horns
in the distance, streetlights flickering, the faint rhythm of a late-night
saxophone player near the corner bar. Her studio smelled faintly of paint,
lavender tea, and worn sketch paper. She sat curled on her couch, fingers
smudged with graphite, the beginnings of a redesign project half-finished in
her lap.
Her phone vibrated. Again.
Call from: Denise – Project Coordinator
With a sigh, Lena picked it up. "Hey, Denise."
"Good. You're awake," Denise replied, her voice crisp and energetic even at
midnight. "Listen, this one's big. A private client. Very hush-hush. They asked
for you by name."
Lena frowned. "By name? Who is it?"
"I can't say over the phone, but the offer's… impressive. High-end downtown
office, total creative freedom, generous budget, and they want to meet
tomorrow. Interested?"
Lena hesitated. "Sounds too good to be real."
"You said you wanted a change, right?" Denise teased. "This could be the
project that shifts your whole career."
Lena stared at her half-finished mood board—beige tones, quiet textures,
plants that wouldn't survive the city's polluted air. Something in her chest
ached. "Alright. Send me the address."
As soon as she hung up, a strange chill settled in her gut. Not fear.
Something worse.
Familiarity.
The next morning, Lena stood in the sleek lobby of a downtown high-rise with
her portfolio tucked under her arm and nerves clawing at her throat.
"Ms. Hart?" the receptionist greeted her with a polished smile. "You're here
for the 10 a.m. consultation?"
"Yes."
"Top floor. Mr. Vale will meet you there."
Vale.
Lena's heart skipped a beat.
That name. That echo. That ghost of a past she had buried under ten years of
silence.
No.
It couldn't be him.
But the elevator doors closed before she could flee.
The office was stunning—unfinished, raw, modern with floor-to-ceiling glass
panels and steel beams that framed the city like a living painting. Her heels
clicked softly against the polished concrete. Lena walked slowly, her eyes
scanning the space. Her mind raced with possible designs. Minimalist. Organic
textures. Warm light. Nothing cold. Nothing sterile.
But then—she heard it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Steady. Male.
When she turned around, time folded in on itself.
Ethan Vale.
Older. Broader. Sharper jaw. Same eyes. Same presence that had once made her
teenage heart flutter and her adult soul ache.
He froze.
So did she.
"Lena?" His voice was low, rough with disbelief.
Her throat tightened. "Ethan."
Silence stretched between them, thick as fog and just as disorienting. The
office vanished. The city noise disappeared. All that remained was ten years of
unfinished sentences.
"You're the designer?" he asked finally.
"I didn't know it was your firm," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Small world."
"No," she said. "Big city. Old ghosts."
His eyes flickered at that. "You look… different."
"So do you."
He stepped forward, slowly, carefully, as if she were a mirage that might
vanish if he moved too quickly. "I thought you left for good."
"I did."
"Then why are you here now?"
"To work."
She didn't flinch. She didn't let him see the shake in her hands. The truth
was, she had imagined this moment a hundred times—on sleepless nights, on long
train rides, in fleeting dreams that felt too cruel to be real. But reality was
colder. He was right here, and the years between them felt both too many and
not enough.
"Why did you leave?" he asked suddenly, the question breaking free like a
wound that never healed.
She looked away. "That's not part of the job description, is it?"
His jaw clenched. "Still know how to cut deep."
Lena turned toward the window. The skyline shimmered in the distance,
blurred by emotion. "We were kids, Ethan. And life doesn't wait for promises
made in the dark."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he walked toward a table, opened a folder, and placed it in front
of her.
"The office layout. I assume you'll want to look over it before deciding if
you'll accept the project."
Her hands trembled as she took it. "You still want me to take it?"
"You're the best designer in the city. Or so Denise says." His eyes locked
on hers. "Unless the past is too much of a distraction."
Lena straightened her spine. "The past doesn't scare me."
"Good. Then we'll work well together."
But as she rode the elevator back down minutes later, folder in hand and her
heart in pieces, Lena knew she had just lied.
Because the past wasn't just a memory.
It was standing in a glass-walled office, dressed in navy, with eyes that
still held her yesterday.
And now, it wanted to work with her.