Remastered Hearts

Marcus Taylor stood in his control room at 9:45 AM, pretending to adjust levels on the mixing board while actually watching the security feed of the building's entrance. He'd already changed his shirt twice—settling on a charcoal henley that his production manager, Dom, had once described as "successful creative professional, but not trying too hard."

"You know," Dom said from his usual perch by the sound deck, "staring at the monitor won't make her arrive any slower."

Marcus straightened, forcing his hands away from the controls he'd been fidgeting with. "I'm checking the EQ settings for the Thompson podcast."

"Sure you are." Dom swiveled in his chair, dark eyes knowing. "Just like you randomly decided to have the whole studio deep-cleaned yesterday. And reorganized the client lounge. And replaced all the light bulbs with those fancy new LEDs that make everyone look airbrushed."

"The old ones were flickering."

"Uh-huh." Dom turned back to his monitors, but not before Marcus caught his smirk. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, boss."

The security feed flickered, showing a familiar figure entering the building. Maya's walk was different now—more measured, deliberate. The sort of walk that belonged in gleaming office towers, not the cramped indie bookstores where they'd first met. But she still wore her hair the same way, straight black strands falling just past her shoulders, practical but elegant.

Marcus's hands itched to adjust something, anything. Five years ago, he'd sold his failing publishing house rather than take her family's money. Five years of building something new from those ashes, of proving he could succeed on his own terms. And now here she was, about to walk into his studio like some sort of corporate Prometheus, carrying a seven-figure deal that could launch Soundcraft Studios into the major leagues.

The universe, Marcus decided, had a twisted sense of humor.

"They're here," his receptionist announced through the intercom. "Should I bring them to the client lounge?"

Marcus checked his reflection in the studio window. The henley was definitely a mistake. Too casual? Too obvious? Too—

"Yes," Dom answered for him, "bring them to the lounge. Marcus will be there in two minutes, once he's done having his existential fashion crisis."

Marcus shot him a look. "You're fired."

"You say that at least once a week." Dom stood, stretching his lanky frame. "Come on. I'll be your buffer. Like old times."

The mention of old times caught Marcus off guard. Dom had been there for all of it—the bankruptcy, the reinvention, the late nights learning audio engineering while they subsisted on ramen and determination. He'd never once mentioned Maya by name, but he'd been the one to pour the whiskey on the nights Marcus couldn't help but talk about her.

They walked down the exposed-brick hallway that Marcus had spent a small fortune restoring. Industrial-modern light fixtures cast a warm glow on the framed awards and press features. Evidence of his second act, his phoenix rise from publishing's ashes.

Maya stood as they entered the lounge, and Marcus's carefully rehearsed greeting died in his throat. She wore a dove-gray blazer over a silk shell, elegant as always, but it was the jade pendant at her throat that caught his eye. His pendant. The one he'd spent two months' rent on back when they were young and fearless and convinced they'd revolutionize publishing together.

"Marcus." Her voice was professional, practiced. A voice used to being heard in boardrooms. "Thank you for meeting with us."

Us. Right. There was a younger woman with her—an assistant probably, given the tablet and color-coded planner she clutched.

"Maya." He managed to keep his own voice steady. "Welcome to Soundcraft."

"This is Jessica Wu, my assistant," Maya gestured to her companion. "And I assume everyone knows Dom Rivera, your production manager?"

"Hard to forget someone who once started a bar fight over Oxford commas," Jessica piped up, then immediately looked like she wished she hadn't.

Maya's perfect composure cracked for just a moment, a flicker of shared memory passing between them. That night at The Inked Page, their old publishing crowd's favorite haunt. Dom defending serial commas with the passion of a zealot, Maya laughing so hard she'd cried into Marcus's shoulder...

"That was one time," Dom protested, breaking the moment. "And I maintain I was absolutely right."

Marcus gestured to the sleek sectional sofa. "Should we sit? I can walk you through our production capabilities, recent projects—"

"Actually," Maya cut in, "I'd love to see the studio first. If you don't mind."

There it was. The subtle challenge in her tone. Checking to see if he'd built something real here, something that could handle her star client's memoir.

"Of course." Marcus moved toward the door, hyperaware of her presence behind him. "We'll start with Studio A. We just upgraded the acoustic treatment last month..."

He led them through the facility, describing their equipment and process with the practiced ease of countless client tours. Maya asked sharp, technical questions that proved she'd done her homework. No surprise there—she'd always been thorough, always prepared for every contingency.

They reached Studio A's control room, and Marcus caught Maya's slight intake of breath. The space was impressive, he knew. Triple-paned glass separated the control room from the recording booth, both spaces wrapped in textured panels in shades of blue and gray. The massive mixing console dominated the room, its sleek surface reflecting the ambient lighting.

"This is where the magic happens," Dom said, dropping into his usual chair. "Want to see it in action?"

Before Marcus could protest, Dom pulled up their latest project—a short story anthology podcast—and hit play. The room filled with rich audio: layered narration, subtle sound design, original score weaving through it all.

Maya closed her eyes, just for a moment, but Marcus recognized her listening face. The slight furrow between her brows, the way her head tilted just so. Some things hadn't changed.

"The production value is excellent," she said when the clip ended. All business again. "But Elena Reyes's memoir will need something different. More intimate. Her voice is so personal on the page, and we need—"

"A soundscape that feels like being in her kitchen," Marcus finished. "Ambient cooking sounds mixed low, just enough to set the scene. Natural reverb to suggest family gatherings. I read the sample chapters."

Maya's eyes met his, a flash of their old synchronicity. "Exactly."

The air in the control room felt suddenly thick. Marcus busied himself with the console, pulling up another project with similar elements. "Like this, but we'd customize—"

A phone rang, shrill in the enclosed space. Jessica fumbled with her tablet. "Ms. Chen? The Alvarez contract meeting starts in forty minutes..."

"Right." Maya straightened, adjusting her blazer with practiced precision. "Send me your formal bid by Thursday? Including timeline, staff allocation, and creative direction?"

Marcus nodded, professional mask firmly in place. "You'll have it Wednesday."

She turned to leave, then paused. "The studio... it's impressive, Marcus. Really."

He wanted to say something flip, something casual about second chances and reinvention. Instead, he heard himself ask, "Still take your coffee with two sugars, no cream?"

Maya's step faltered, just slightly. "Good memory," she said without turning around, and then she was gone, Jessica hurrying in her wake.

Dom waited until their footsteps faded before speaking. "So. That went..."

"Don't." Marcus slumped into his chair.

"I'm just saying, if you're going to spend six weeks working together—"

"We're not getting the job." Marcus spun to face his friend. "She was just doing due diligence, checking out all the potential studios. You saw how corporate she is now. She'll go with one of the big production houses, play it safe."

Dom's expression was unnervingly thoughtful. "The Maya Chen I remember never played it safe. And she's still wearing your necklace."

Marcus turned back to the mixing board, adjusting faders at random. "Different track," he muttered. "Different people."

But his traitor fingers had already pulled up a new project file. Working Title: Reyes Memoir. Project Status: Pending.

Some habits really were harder to break than others.