There’s a chill in the elevator that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

Seraphine Myles stands unnaturally still, folder pressed tight against her chest as the numbers on the elevator screen blink upward — 21… 22… 23… She forces herself to breathe in steady counts. The silver doors reflect a version of herself she barely recognizes: polished, sharp, untouchable.

She’s anything but.

NovaMuse.

The name echoes like a dare.

A place people dream of working in.

A place she never imagined walking into again, not like this.

Not when she knew who was waiting on the other side.

The elevator dings softly. The doors open with a smooth hush. The top floor gleams with curated sterility — matte black accents, soft gold lighting, glass walls that look too clean to exist in reality. It smells like money. Like lavender. Like restraint.

She walks out, greeted by a receptionist who doesn’t look up. “Miss Myles. Conference Room 4A.”

Sera swallows and nods.

Her heels click softly down the hallway, echoing louder in her chest. The folder in her hands suddenly feels too light. Her throat, too tight.

Her fingers hover just briefly over the doorknob. And then she opens it.

And there she is.

Celeste Quinn.

Standing at the head of the room in a slate-grey suit, arms folded, lips pursed in quiet observation. Her hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. Her eyes — still that cold, unreadable steel blue — flick up, and for a moment, they lock onto Sera’s.

The world stops.

No one in the room notices the pause, but Sera feels it in every bone.

“Miss Myles,” Celeste says. Her voice is velvet-smooth, dipped in ice. “Welcome.”

There is no emotion. Not even a hint of it.

Sera walks to the farthest available seat. She doesn’t trust herself to speak. Not here. Not now. Not when her lungs are struggling to remember how to work.

The presentation begins — timelines, campaign ideas, launch targets. Words swirl around her like static. She doesn’t process any of it. All she can hear is the soft scrape of Celeste’s pen. All she can smell is the same perfume Celeste wore the last night they ever touched.

She shouldn’t have come.

But she had to.

Her director had made it clear — “This collaboration succeeds, and you’ll get your own department. Maybe even the creative independence you’ve been begging for.”

And Sera had been too tired, too stubborn, too hopeful to ask who she'd be collaborating with.

Of course it was her.

By the end of the meeting, her hands are trembling under the table.

As the team begins to file out, Celeste closes her folder. She walks past Sera like she’s just another name in the room.

Sera almost lets her go.

Almost.

But her voice, traitorous and quiet, escapes.

“Was this your idea?”

Celeste stops.

The air between them stills.

She turns slowly, eyes meeting hers. No flicker of surprise. No anger. Just… that same quiet, distant cold.

“No,” she says. A pause. “But I didn’t say no either.”

And then she leaves.

And Sera sits there, spine straight, heart breaking all over again — because that one sentence feels exactly like five years ago.

NovaMuse was always quiet at night.

The kind of silence that echoed. The kind that whispered if you stayed too long.

It used to be peaceful. Now it just feels haunted.

Sera leans against the cold marble counter of the 22nd floor pantry, her coffee untouched. Outside the glass windows, the city glows in gold and red — alive, romantic, cruel.

Just like her.

She closes her eyes for a moment. Celeste's voice still lingers in her head like a melody she can’t delete.

> "But I didn’t say no either."

What did that even mean?

Was it an apology? An excuse? A warning?

Sera doesn’t know anymore.

---

Earlier that afternoon, after the meeting, she'd received a Slack notification:

> 📁 "Concept Deck v2 – S.Myles"

Sent by: C.Quinn

Message: "Include revised copy by EOD. Congratulations on the pitch clarity."

No emojis. No warmth. Just corporate politeness in Helvetica font.

She’d stared at it for a long time.

The last time Celeste congratulated her, it was whispered against bare skin, fingers laced behind her back.

Now?

It’s in a workspace thread, publicly visible. Strategically cold.

She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe cry.

But instead, she added the revisions, clicked resolve comment, and logged off like the professional she swore she’d be.

---

Her phone vibrates on the counter.

A message from Elena.

> Elena: [9:27 PM]

You okay? I saw your face in that Zoom call. You looked like someone just ran over your soul.

Seraphine exhales.

> Seraphine: [9:28 PM]

Still breathing. That counts, right?

> Elena: [9:29 PM]

I can text your ex a threat if you need.

Again.

> Seraphine: [9:29 PM]

She’s not my ex. She’s my boss.

…which is worse, somehow.

> Elena: [9:30 PM]

💀💀💀

Elena sends a voice note. Seraphine doesn’t listen to it. She already knows it’ll be dramatic and ridiculous and painfully caring — which she’s not sure she can handle tonight.

---

She scrolls through her Instagram before she realizes what she’s doing.

She’s already on Celeste’s profile.

Still private. Still minimal.

A black-and-white story from three hours ago is still up: a glass of red wine on a windowsill, city lights blurred in the background.

No caption.

Sera knows that view.

It’s the same angle from the old apartment. The one with the piano. The one with their dreams.

She stares at it too long.

And then — three dots appear at the bottom of her screen.

Celeste is online.

For a second, Sera thinks she’s about to get a message.

She doesn’t.

The dots disappear.

And that — that hurts worse than anything.

---

By the time she returns to her desk, it’s past 10.

There’s a sticky note left on her chair in sharp, familiar handwriting:

> "Don’t stay too late. You’ll miss the last train."

– C.

No emoji. No name. Just that initial.

Still so careful. Still so distant.

Sera stares at it. Then folds it once, twice, again, until it’s nothing but a square of silence she slips into her pocket.

She grabs her bag and leaves.

She doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

Every floor at NovaMuse has a name. Not just a number.

The 23rd is called The Studio — a glass-walled creative floor drenched in soft daylight and high ceilings, where concepts are born and burned every day. Seraphine walks it slowly, mug in hand, eyes scanning for a space to breathe.

But she doesn’t realize where her feet are going… until she sees it.

Studio Room 5.

She stops in her tracks.

It looks different now — remodeled, sleeker, filled with new tech. But the window still faces the same west corner of the skyline. The shadows fall the same way.

This room used to be theirs.

Not officially, of course. But it was the place they used to meet after hours. Long before Celeste became CEO Quinn. Back when they were students interning, stealing moments between deadlines and cheap coffee.

The room’s still. Silent. Empty.

It’s unlocked.

Sera steps inside before she can stop herself.

The scent of the room hits her first — paper, ink, faint wood polish, and something else.

Memory.

She stands there for a full minute. Not moving. Just… remembering.

---

She had kissed Celeste for the first time by that corner table.

It had been raining. They were arguing over a campaign concept. Something ridiculous. Something forgettable. And then Celeste had said something stupid, sarcastic, and Seraphine had thrown a paper ball at her.

Celeste caught it mid-air. Smiled.

And then she kissed her.

Right there. Messy. Unexpected. Perfect.

---

Now the table is gone.

The old corkboard they used to pin ideas to is replaced by a smart screen.

Everything has changed.

Except her heart.

That, apparently, still remembers exactly how it felt to be wanted.

She walks to the corner, fingertips brushing against the window glass. She can see her reflection — faint, sad, a little older. She leans forward until her forehead touches the glass, eyes closing.

> “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Her spine goes rigid.

The voice is soft, low, familiar — achingly so.

She doesn’t turn around.

“I didn’t know it was still here,” she murmurs.

There’s silence behind her. Heavy. Weighted.

Then:

“I never changed the lock.”

Sera finally turns.

Celeste stands at the door, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a closed folder. She looks… tired. Or maybe that’s just how Sera sees her now.

“You still come here?” Sera asks.

Celeste hesitates. Then shrugs. “Sometimes. When it’s late.”

They both stand there. Neither moving.

“I thought you hated remembering,” Sera says quietly.

“I thought you stopped being worth remembering,” Celeste replies — and immediately looks like she regrets it.

The silence that follows is brutal.

Seraphine’s throat tightens, but she smiles. It’s sharp, tired, all wrong. “Well. I guess we were both wrong.”

She brushes past her. Leaves the room without looking back.

Celeste stays behind.

---

That night, Sera gets home and throws her bag to the floor. She stares at the wall for fifteen minutes.

Then, finally, she pulls her phone out and opens the Notes app.

> "I hate that I still check to see if you’re in the room first. I hate that I still breathe differently when you are."