Remastered Hearts

Maya Chen's coffee grew cold as she stared at the email on her screen, her stomach doing the same flip it did every time she saw his name. Marcus Taylor. The letters seemed to pulse on her screen like a warning sign, each one weighted with five years of carefully maintained distance. Of all the podcast producers in New York City, her chef's memoir had to land on his desk. The universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of irony.

The coffee's bitter aroma mingled with the ghost of old memories – late nights in his cramped office, sharing a single cup between manuscript reviews, his fingers brushing hers with each pass of the mug. She could still taste those moments, bitter and sweet, like the dregs of dreams that refused to fade.

"Earth to Maya?" Jessica, her assistant, waved a hand in front of her face, the movement disturbing a shaft of morning light that had been painting Manhattan's skyline across Maya's desk. "The coffee run meeting? You're already five minutes late."

Maya minimized her inbox, but Marcus's name still burned in her mind like an afterimage. "Cancel it. Actually, cancel everything for the next hour." She needed time to think, to strategize. To remember how to breathe without feeling the weight of history pressing against her ribs.

"But—"

"The Reyes memoir takes priority." Maya's voice carried the crisp authority she'd spent years perfecting, the tone that had earned her the nickname 'Steel Magnolia' among her junior colleagues. A voice that revealed nothing of the tremor in her hands, the rapid flutter of her pulse. "We need to lock down the audio rights by Friday."

As Jessica retreated, the click of her heels fading down the hallway, Maya opened her bottom desk drawer. The wood stuck slightly – it always did in humid weather – and the sound transported her back to another drawer, another office, where they'd kept their dreams filed alphabetically. Under a stack of manuscripts lay a worn copy of Breaking Forms: The Future of Independent Publishing. The spine was cracked in three places, each one marking a night they'd stayed up reading passages aloud, drunk on possibility and cheap wine. She hadn't touched it in five years, but she could still quote the acknowledgments page by heart: To M.C., who believes in breaking rules and breaking ground. Your faith makes all things possible.

Her fingers traced the embossed letters, remembering how proud she'd been the first time she saw it in print. How Marcus had surprised her with an advance copy, presenting it over dinner at their favorite hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place. She'd cried then – happy tears that made him tease her gently before kissing the salt from her cheeks.

That was before, of course. Before the market crashed and took Marcus's indie press with it. Before he'd looked at her family's offered investment like it was poison, his dark eyes hardening with a pride she'd once loved but couldn't understand. Before he'd sold his publishing house to a conglomerate rather than accept her help, choosing to burn their shared dreams rather than compromise them.

Her phone buzzed against the glass desktop, the sound sharp enough to make her jump. A text from Ava Kumar, her mentor and the head of their literary agency:

Just heard back from Marcus Taylor's team. He's interested in the Reyes project. Set up a meeting?

Maya's fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. The jade bangle on her wrist – a gift from her mother when she made junior agent – caught the light, reminding her of everything she'd achieved since the bankruptcy. Since them. She could say no. Could tell Ava that Marcus's production schedule was too tight, his style wasn't right for the project, his rates were too high—any number of professional excuses that wouldn't raise eyebrows.

But she knew Marcus's work. In the five years since their breakup, she'd secretly listened to every podcast his studio produced. Late at night, his voice would fill her apartment through expensive headphones – different now, more polished, but still with that underlying passion that had first drawn her to him. He'd won two Webby Awards and a Peabody. His storytelling style would be perfect for Elena Reyes's memoir, with its complex themes of family, food, and cultural identity. The way he could draw out the heart of a story, make it pulse with life...

And if Maya landed this deal—both print and audio rights—she'd be up for junior partner. At twenty-nine, she'd be the youngest in the agency's history. The thought steadied her, reminded her of who she was now: not the eager young agent who'd fallen in love with a passionate publisher, but a power player in her own right.

Her computer chimed with another email. This one from Marcus himself, and the sound seemed to echo in her chest:

Maya,

Ava mentioned the Reyes memoir. Interesting project. Your proposal suggests six weeks of studio time. Tight schedule, but doable with the right team.

I have a two-hour window tomorrow at 10 AM if you want to discuss logistics. My studio in Williamsburg.

Best,

Marcus

Best. Such a small word to carry so much weight. They used to sign their emails with much more intimate closings. Used to share dreams bigger than best. She could almost hear him saying it in that tone he'd used near the end – careful, distant, like he was handling something fragile and sharp.

Maya grabbed her phone and pulled up her calendar before she could change her mind, before the memories could drown her professional resolve. Her thumbs moved quickly:

Tomorrow works. Send the address.

She hit send, then leaned back in her chair, the leather cool against her neck where anxiety had raised her body temperature. The last time she'd seen him played behind her eyes like a scene from someone else's movie. It was at the bankruptcy hearing for Groundbreaking Press, the indie publishing house he'd built from scratch. She'd sat in the back of the courtroom, watching him sign away his dream rather than accept her family's money. Rather than accept that sometimes love meant letting someone help you. He hadn't looked back as he left the courtroom, but she'd seen how his shoulders curved inward, like he was protecting something precious and broken.

"You're doing that thing with your jaw again," Jessica's voice came from the doorway, startling Maya out of the memory. "The stress-clenching thing."

Maya forced her muscles to relax, tasting copper where she'd bitten the inside of her cheek. "I need you to pull everything we have on Soundcraft Studios. Their client list, production values, industry reputation—"

"Marcus Taylor's company?" Jessica's eyes widened with the hunger for gossip that made her such an excellent assistant. "The Marcus? The one who—"

"The one who's potentially producing the Reyes audiobook," Maya cut in smoothly, her tone broadcasting *danger zone* in every syllable. "Nothing more."

"Right." Jessica's tone suggested she didn't believe that for a second. "And you want his complete portfolio because...?"

"Because this is a seven-figure deal and I need to know our production partner inside and out." Maya turned back to her computer, a clear dismissal. The morning sun had shifted, throwing her reflection across the screen – she looked composed, professional, nothing like the chaos churning beneath her surface. "Have it on my desk before you leave tonight."

Once Jessica was gone, Maya opened her browser and typed in Soundcraft Studios, muscle memory making her fingers stumble over the familiar keys. The website had been recently updated. Clean design, professional portfolio, and there he was—Marcus's official bio photo. She leaned closer despite herself, drinking in the changes five years had carved into his face.

He looked older, of course. The sharp angles of his face had softened slightly. He'd grown a neatly trimmed beard that made him look more executive, less the scrappy indie publisher who'd worked eighty-hour weeks fueled by dreams and determination. His smile was different too—more polished, less of the wild joy she remembered from late-night plotting sessions. But his eyes... those hadn't changed. They still held that intensity, that ability to see straight through pretense to the heart of things.

The bio mentioned his transition from publishing to podcasting but not the bankruptcy. Not the bridge-burning. Not the night he'd looked at her across his empty office, surrounded by packed boxes and broken dreams, and said, "Some dreams aren't meant to be saved, Maya. Sometimes you have to let them die to make room for new ones." She'd thrown her keys to the office at him then – missing on purpose – and walked away before he could see her cry.

Maya closed the browser with more force than necessary and grabbed her coat, the soft cashmere a armor against memories. She needed air. Needed to walk the busy streets of Manhattan and remind herself that she wasn't that starry-eyed twenty-four-year-old anymore, who thought love and talent were enough to build an empire on. She was Maya Chen, rising star of Preston & Associates Literary Agency. She'd built her reputation on her ability to handle difficult negotiations.

Tomorrow would be just another meeting. Just another deal to close. She repeated this like a mantra as she gathered her things, straightening papers that didn't need straightening.

She stepped into the elevator, her reflection in the polished doors showing a composed professional in a tailored blazer – every hair in place, every crease sharp enough to cut. But as the floors ticked down, her hand crept up to touch the small jade pendant she still wore—his gift on their first anniversary, chosen to match her favorite fountain pen. The one he'd given her over dim sum, nervous as a teenager despite having already signed a lease on their first office together.

"Green for new beginnings," he'd said, fastening the clasp with trembling fingers. "For growing things."

Some habits were harder to break than others. Some memories refused to fade, no matter how many floors you put between yourself and the past.

The elevator doors opened onto the lobby, and Maya stepped out into the stream of Manhattan life, letting it carry her forward. Tomorrow was just another meeting. Another deal. Another chance to prove that she'd grown into someone stronger than the girl who'd once believed in impossible things.

But her fingers didn't leave the pendant until she was halfway down the block.