The launch party for Elena's cookbook companion series was in full swing at Fresh Ink Books, the trendy independent bookstore that had risen from the ashes of Manhattan's dying retail spaces. Maya watched Marcus work the room, demonstrating the audio experience to influential food bloggers and industry insiders. Even from across the space, she could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands moved more precisely than usual—signs she'd learned meant he was struggling to maintain his professional facade. Their eyes kept meeting across the crowded room, then darting away, like opposite poles of a magnet simultaneously attracting and repelling.
She recognized his forced smile, the one that didn't crinkle the corners of his eyes. The same smile he'd worn during Groundbreaking's final days. His fingers kept adjusting the mixing board's levels unnecessarily—his old tell for when he was agitated but trying to hide it.
When their gazes locked again, she found herself unconsciously touching the jade pendant, a gesture that made his hands still momentarily on the controls. He knew what that meant—she used to fidget with it when she was anxious, when she needed his reassurance. His slight head tilt in response was achingly familiar: Are you okay?
She looked away first. Some habits were dangerous to remember.
So why did Maya feel like everything was about to implode?
Maybe it was the way her father kept glancing between her and Marcus, his disapproval radiating across the room. Or how Ava had pulled her aside earlier to warn her about "optics" and "maintaining professional distance." Or possibly it was the fact that she hadn't slept properly since that night in the studio, when Marcus's fingers had brushed her hair back and the world had narrowed to the space between their breaths.
"You need to hear this." Dom appeared at her elbow, tablet in hand. "Walsh's team just leaked an early review of their competing memoir. They're calling Elena's approach 'performative' and 'inauthentic.' Says the audio production especially feels 'manipulated for emotional effect.'"
Maya's grip tightened on her champagne glass. "They're trying to undermine our whole concept."
"That's not all." Dom scrolled down. "They've dug up old Groundbreaking Press reviews. Trying to draw parallels between Marcus's 'failed experimental approach' then and now."
Across the room, Marcus was showing something on the mixing board to a group of journalists. His face lit with that familiar passion as he explained the layered sound design, the way they'd built Elena's kitchen soundscape.
"We should tell him," Dom said.
"Not now. Not in front of everyone." Maya moved toward the mixing board, but her father intercepted her.
"Maya." Thomas Chen's voice carried that special tone reserved for public disappointment. "A word about the audio rights distribution?"
"Actually, I need to—"
"The board is concerned about the production costs. And about certain... personal entanglements affecting business decisions."
Maya felt heat rise in her cheeks. "The production quality speaks for itself."
"Does it?" He gestured to where Marcus was now adjusting levels for the journalists. "Or are you letting nostalgia cloud your judgment? Again?"
"Dad—"
"You worked too hard to rebuild your reputation after Groundbreaking's collapse. To establish yourself as a serious player in this industry." He lowered his voice. "Don't throw it away on another of Marcus Taylor's passion projects."
Something snapped. Maybe it was the sleepless nights, or the memory of Marcus's almost-touch, or five years of trying to be the perfect corporate daughter.
"You never understood what we were trying to build," she said, too loudly. Heads turned. "Groundbreaking Press wasn't a passion project. It was an attempt to make publishing more than just quarterly profit reports and safe bets."
"Maya." Her father's warning tone only fueled her anger.
"No. You wanted it to fail. You wanted to prove that success only comes through established channels. Through playing it safe and following the rules and never, ever risking everything for something you believe in."
Marcus was moving toward them now, concern etched on his face. The room had grown quiet.
"You think I wanted you to fail?" Thomas Chen's voice was cold. "I wanted you to learn. That business isn't about dreams and artistic vision. It's about sustainability. Security."
"No." Marcus reached them, his voice tight. He positioned himself slightly between Maya and her father—an unconscious protective stance that hadn't changed in five years. His hand twitched toward her elbow, their old signal for I've got this, before dropping away. "It's about both. That's what you never understood. What neither of you understood."
Maya turned on him, all her confusion and fear and want twisting into anger. She stepped into his space, close enough to see the muscle jumping in his jaw, to catch the slight widening of his pupils. His breath caught—a tiny tell that only she would notice, would remember from countless intimate moments.
"Oh, I understood." She watched his eyes track her nervous habit of pushing her hair back, saw his fingers flex with the remembered urge to do it for her. "I understood that you'd rather let everything burn than accept help. That your pride was more important than our partnership."
They were circling each other now, an intimate dance of anger and attraction. Every accusation was punctuated by a shift closer, their bodies remembering their old gravitational pull even as their words pushed them apart.
"My pride?" His laugh was bitter. "You're the one who transformed into exactly what your father wanted the minute things got tough. The perfect corporate agent, all sharp edges and safe choices."
"At least I didn't abandon everything we built!"
"No, you just replaced it with something more marketable. More acceptable to the Chen family image."
The words hit like physical blows. Around them, phones were definitely recording, social media already exploding with publishing's latest drama.
"You have no right," Maya's voice shook, "to judge my choices. You gave up that right when you chose your ego over our future."
"And you gave up the right to question my creative decisions when you decided corporate approval meant more than creative integrity."
Elena stepped between them. "Enough! Both of you, back room. Now."
Maya became aware of the stunned silence in the bookstore. Of her father's satisfied expression. Of Dom's worried face and Ava's calculating one.
In the back room, among boxes of books and the ghosts of their shared dreams, Elena closed the door. The smaller space made their awareness of each other almost unbearable. Maya wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive posture that made Marcus's expression soften for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. He leaned against a stack of books, assuming the casual pose that Maya knew meant he was anything but casual.
"You're both idiots," Elena said flatly. She watched them unconsciously mirror each other's movements—Maya tucking her hair back, Marcus doing the same seconds later, neither realizing they were doing it. "And you're both right. And wrong. And clearly still in love, though God knows why, given your spectacular inability to actually talk to each other."
Maya's sharp intake of breath made Marcus look at her, really look at her, for the first time since their argument. His eyes softened at the sight of her trembling hands, and without thinking, he took half a step forward before catching himself. The aborted movement hung between them like an unfinished sentence.
"Elena—" Maya started, her voice carrying that slight tremor that always made Marcus's hands twitch with the need to reach for her.
Through the door, they could hear the buzz of gossip, the sound of their private pain becoming public spectacle. Maya shifted her weight, angling her body slightly toward the exit—her classic flight response. Marcus recognized it instantly, his own body automatically moving to block her path, an old dance they'd done countless times during difficult meetings at Groundbreaking.
"I should go do damage control," Maya said, but her eyes stayed fixed on Marcus's face, reading the tension around his mouth, the way his shoulders had curved inward protectively.
"We both should." Marcus wouldn't meet her eyes now, but his body betrayed him, still oriented toward her like a compass finding north. "Separately. Like always."
As they moved to leave, their hands brushed accidentally. Both jerked back as if burned, but not before their fingers had automatically started to intertwine—muscle memory from a thousand casual touches.
Elena watched this elaborate non-verbal ballet with knowing eyes. "Figure it out," she said. "Before you let fear burn down something that could be beautiful. Again."
Maya watched Marcus walk away, his shoulders rigid with tension, but his steps slower than necessary, like some part of him was waiting—hoping—for her to call him back. Her own body swayed forward slightly, an unconscious response to his departure, before she forced herself to stay still.
Some dances were too dangerous to remember the steps to.
Elena threw up her hands. "Fine. Go be professional. But remember this: my memoir isn't just about recipes. It's about how love—all kinds of love—needs both tradition and innovation. Both roots and wings. Both stability and risk."
She opened the door, letting in the noise and lights and expectations of the outside world.
"Figure it out," she said. "Stop letting fear turn everything beautiful to ash. Not this time."
Maya watched Marcus walk away, his shoulders rigid with tension. She thought of their night in the studio, of almost-touches and almost-confessions. Of five years spent trying to be everything except what they were together.
Her phone buzzed: another alert about Walsh's competing memoir. About threat and competition and playing it safe.
She'd spent five years playing it safe.
Maybe it was time to risk burning.