Anna Valeria walked into the VAST building like it hadn't nearly swallowed her whole two years ago.
Same floors. Same scent—coffee, cold metal, and expensive toner. Same receptionist who paused a beat too long before smiling and pretending not to recognize her. That was fine.
She wasn't here to be recognized.
She was here to be undeniable.
Her heels clicked across the marble lobby like a metronome, steady and sharp. Every step was practiced—not just poised, but precise. She wasn't here to take up space. She was here to take it back.
A junior strategist passed her in the corridor. He looked maybe twenty-two and brand new, carrying a laptop like it was a shield. He stared at her like he couldn't figure out if she was a visiting exec or the beginning of a story he hadn't read yet.
"Anna Valeria?" he muttered to no one in particular, just loud enough for the whisper to reach its intended target.
She kept walking.
Let them wonder.
The conference room was on the twelfth floor. She remembered because it used to be her floor—the place where she had spent late nights building pitches that never bore her name, rebranding campaigns someone else would present, crafting taglines only to watch them rewritten in a man's voice.
Two years ago, she walked out of here humiliated.
Today, she walked back in with a folder under her arm and a client who specifically requested her.
She opened the door.
And there he was.
Ben.
Benedict Reyes. Creative Director. Golden boy. Sharp suit. Sharper smile. Sitting at the head of the table like the past hadn't happened, like he hadn't gutted her in front of a room of executives and then kissed her like none of it mattered.
He looked up.
Smiled.
"Valeria," he said, the name curling off his tongue like it still meant something.
"You're early."
"I'm ready," she replied.
She didn't smile.
She took the seat directly across from him.
Let him feel it.
The others trickled in. Account leads, a pair of junior creatives, someone from strategy who didn't meet her eyes. Ben leaned back in his chair, unbothered. The top button of his shirt was undone. His jacket was perfectly fitted. His presence hadn't changed.
But Anna had.
She didn't shrink this time.
She set her notes on the table. She smoothed the edge of her skirt. She anchored her spine and refused to fill the silence with anything that wasn't necessary.
They were co-leading the Royal Lux campaign. That was the official term. "Co-leads."
It sounded diplomatic.
What it meant was: the client had demanded her involvement, and the agency didn't dare turn the client down.
It meant: Ben wasn't in control this time.
He just didn't know it yet.
As the meeting began, Anna spoke first.
She introduced the campaign vision with clarity, composure, and a calm edge that didn't rise or fall no matter how many times someone shifted in their chair.
"Scent of Memory is more than just nostalgia," she said, clicking through the slides. "It's identity in vapor form. We're not just selling fragrance—we're selling the person they used to be, the one they still want to find."
A few nods. A small flicker of interest in the strategist's eyes.
She had them.
Then Ben leaned forward.
And cut in.
"It's a strong emotional arc," he said, voice warm, practiced. "Of course, we'll need to make sure we're grounding that emotion in market behavior. We don't want to over-index on sentimentality. Royal Lux still wants numbers."
He smiled at her.
Like he hadn't done the exact same thing two years ago—agreed in tone, contradicted in message, and left her holding the bag.
Anna didn't flinch.
She nodded once.
"Of course," she said. "And they'll get both. Storytelling is data. They just don't always know how to read it."
Someone on the left choked a quiet laugh.
Ben blinked.
For just a second.
Then he smiled wider.
She had landed the hit. Clean. Elegant. No venom.
She was learning.
After the meeting, the room emptied. People filed out. No one spoke to her directly, but the energy had shifted.
Ben lingered.
She gathered her notes, slow and measured.
"Still good at the one-liners," he said, tone casual.
"Still good at strategic interruptions," she replied, not looking up.
He leaned against the edge of the table.
"We work well together. You know that."
She finally looked at him.
Straight on.
Her voice was level. "We've never worked together. I worked while you took credit."
The smile faded.
For a beat, he looked at her—not like an adversary. Not like a co-worker.
Like a man who remembered more than he should.
She walked out before he could reply.
After the meeting, Sydney found her near the elevators, red lips curving like a knife.
"Didn't think you'd be back," she said, holding a coffee like a prop.
"I'm not here for nostalgia."
"You're here for a second chance."
Anna didn't answer.
Sydney sipped her drink, eyes gleaming. "You know he's still the same, right? Still magnetic. Still dangerous. Still utterly convinced he's the smartest person in the room."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "And you still orbit him like it's gravity."
Sydney smiled. "I don't orbit. I observe."
"Good," Anna said, stepping past her. "Then observe this: I'm not here to win him. I'm here to make sure he never forgets what he lost."
Sydney's expression twitched.
It was almost enough.
That night, Anna stood barefoot in her apartment, the city flickering through the window like static.
She hadn't cried.
She hadn't shaken.
But she hadn't eaten, either.
The adrenaline was gone now, and what was left was quieter—dense in her limbs, lingering at the base of her neck like heat after a slap.
Her blazer hung on the back of the chair. Her heels were by the door. Her laptop sat open on the kitchen counter, its glow casting soft light against half-finished notes.
She walked to the window and leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
From twelve stories up, the city looked calm.
But inside her, something was stirring. Not panic. Not fear.
Something colder.
More dangerous.
Focus.
Ben's face rose uninvited.
Not from memory, but from today.
The way he looked at her. The way he didn't look away. The way his smile held no apology, like the past wasn't a ghost between them but just a file archived too long to matter.
She had once loved that confidence.
She had mistaken it for vision.
Now, she saw it for what it was: armor built from other people's ideas, polished with charm, and worn like entitlement.
He wasn't the same man who kissed her in the elevator.
He was worse.
Because now he remembered what she was capable of.
And he was still trying to outpace it.
Anna turned from the window and walked back to her laptop.
The Scent of Memory deck was still open. Clean slides. Clean strategy. Her fingerprints on every frame.
This was her idea.
It always had been.
She'd built the emotional skeleton two years ago, and Ben had gutted it, wrapped it in new skin, and pretended it was his.
And now?
Now the client wanted her.
Now the agency was scrambling to reinstate a woman they once called "too subjective for senior leadership."
Now Benedict Reyes would sit across from her not as a gatekeeper—
But as a co-lead.
A term someone else assigned.
Because no one had the spine to call her what she was.
The one who got up after.
She closed the deck.
Not to rest.
To sharpen it later.
To split its seams and restitch it in a way that would make everyone else's work feel like a draft in comparison.
Tomorrow, she will walk into that room again.
Not to reclaim her seat.
To redefine it.
She stared at the blank edge of her screen.
Then opened a new note file.
At the top, she typed in all caps:
BEN DOESN'T GET TO ERASE ME TWICE.
She sat there, breathing.
Not shallow.
Not fast.
Just steady.
A rhythm that belonged to someone who knew the fire she was walking into—and no longer feared getting burned.
She powered off her laptop, crossed the room, and picked up her blazer from the chair.
It smelled like perfume and resolve.
She draped it neatly over the back of her closet door.
And when she turned out the lights, she didn't hesitate.
Not even for a second.