Replay

(Jasmine's POV)

By the time I made it back to our apartment, the city outside had softened into night, streetlights buzzing, the hum of distant traffic sliding through the cracked window in the stairwell. My blazer was still buttoned, but I felt like I'd been running a marathon in heels all day.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The place smelled like soy sauce and Tia's favorite sesame noodles. The TV was paused on a menu screen, and she was curled up on the couch in one of her worn college sweatshirts, chopsticks in one hand, her phone in the other.

"Well, well," she said without looking up. "Look who survived the big bad wolf."

I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my heels, one after the other. "You've been sitting on that all day, haven't you?"

She finally looked up, grinning. "Adrian Wolfe. In the flesh. How bad was it?"

I sank into the armchair across from her, resting my elbows on my knees. "He called on me in the middle of the strategy session."

Tia's brows shot up. "Day one and he already threw you to the wolves, pun intended."

"Yeah," I muttered, leaning back. "He asked me what I'd do with the Mirabelle account. Right there. In front of Claire. In front of the whole table."

Tia let out a low whistle. "And?"

"And… I told him," I said. "About shifting the focus from bottles to moments, about using mid-tier influencers with real followings. He poked holes, I patched them, and… I didn't choke."

Tia sat up straighter, noodles forgotten. "You didn't just not choke. You fired back. That's why he called on you. That man doesn't waste his time on someone he doesn't think can keep up."

I rubbed my forehead, still feeling the residual heat in my cheeks. "Or maybe he just wanted to watch me squirm. He used to do that all the time in college."

Tia's grin widened, sly and knowing. "Oh, I remember. I was there, Jazz. You two were like cats in a bag during those debate tournaments. Half the time I didn't know if you were about to kiss or kill each other."

I laughed, startled by the image. "Kill, definitely kill. He was insufferable."

"Insufferable and smart," Tia said, twirling her chopsticks like a gavel. "He used to sit there with that little halfsmile, just waiting to pounce. And every single time, you rose to it. Admit it. You loved sparring with him."

I threw a cushion at her. "I hated it."

"Liar," she singsonged, dodging the cushion. "You hated losing to him. Different thing."

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "He hasn't changed. Same smirk. Same way of making you feel like you're being tested."

"And you haven't changed either," Tia said, softer now. "You still rise to it. You still hold your own."

I looked over at her, her legs tucked under her, eyes sharp despite the teasing. Tia never let me sit in selfdoubt for long.

"You're saying he respects me," I said quietly.

"I'm saying," she replied, "he wouldn't bother otherwise. He knows you're not like the others. He's known that since college."

I didn't answer. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing her words hit somewhere deeper than I wanted to admit.

Instead, I stood, stretched out the stiffness in my shoulders, and reached for one of the takeout containers on the table. "Pass me the noodles before you turn this into a therapy session."

Tia laughed, handing them over. "Fine. But you're gonna think about what I said. I know that look in your eyes."

I settled back into the chair, twirling noodles around the chopsticks, pretending her words hadn't burrowed under my skin.

But even as I ate, I felt it, that old spark from the campus lecture halls, the one I thought I'd buried under years of work and compromise, flickering back to life.

Tia kicked her feet up on the coffee table, crossing her ankles in those ridiculous fuzzy socks she lived in, and gave me that look, half amusement, half challenge.

"Do you remember that night after the campus forum?" she asked, like she was easing into a story we both knew by heart.

I frowned, chewing. "Which forum? We did a hundred of those."

"The one where you roasted him about the sponsorship budgets," she said, pointing her chopsticks at me like a weapon. "You called him out for padding numbers and the whole room went dead silent."

A laugh escaped me, quick and sharp. "Oh God. He looked like he wanted to strangle me."

"He cornered you in the hallway after," Tia said, leaning forward. "I was right there. He was all, " she deepened her voice in a mockserious tone, "'Do you always grandstand when you're losing, Ford?'"

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Please tell me you're making that up."

"Nope. Word for word," she said. "And you? You didn't even blink. You just shot back, 'Do you always smirk when you're scared you're wrong, Wolfe?'"

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on the noodles. "He hated when I said things like that."

Tia's grin softened. "He didn't hate it, Jazz. He noticed it. He noticed you."

I shook my head, wiping at my mouth with a napkin. "You're reading into it."

"Am I?" she asked, tilting her head. "Because I watched him. I watched the way he'd ignore half the room and zero in on you. And yeah, maybe he wanted to win, but there was something else there too."

I thought back, the memories clearer than I expected. Adrian in those lecture halls, leaning back in his chair, arms folded, eyes sharp like he was dissecting every word I said. The way he'd linger after debates, tossing one last barb over his shoulder, daring me to chase him down with another argument.

"I hated how much space he took up," I muttered.

"And yet," Tia said, sipping her wine, "here we are. Years later. And the first day you meet again, he calls on you in a room full of people. You think that's coincidence?"

"I think he wanted to make an example of me," I said.

Tia raised her brows. "Or he wanted to see if the girl who knocked him down a peg back then still had it."

I didn't answer. The truth sat there between us, uncomfortable and alive. I thought about the way his gaze had cut across that conference table, not just assessing but almost… remembering.

"Whatever it is," I said finally, setting my empty container aside, "I'm not here to relive college games. I'm here to work. And I'm not letting him rattle me."

Tia smirked. "Sure, boss. Just don't forget, sometimes the games are how he says hello."

I shot her a look, but she was already stretching out on the couch, humming to herself like she hadn't just shoved open a door I'd been trying to keep shut.

The apartment was quiet when I woke, the kind of soft gray light slipping through the curtains that makes the whole city feel like it's holding its breath.

Tia was still asleep in her room, faint music playing from her phone, some lofi beat on repeat. I padded across the floor, bare feet brushing cool wood, and stood in front of the closet.

What do you wear on day two of a brandnew life?

I ran my fingers along the hangers. Yesterday's burgundy suit was draped over a chair, still sharp. Today, I needed something that said I was steady, not a fluke. I pulled out a deep emerald blouse, crisp black trousers, and my favorite blockheeled boots, the ones that made me exactly the same height as Adrian in those lecture hall memories. Not that I was thinking about that.

Coffee brewed in the kitchen, filling the air with that earthy, comforting smell that always reminded me of early mornings before presentations. I poured it into a travel mug, added just enough cream to take the edge off, and sat at the table with my laptop.

The onepager waited like a dare.

I opened a fresh document and started typing. Headings, bullet points, phrasing that felt alive. The campaign wasn't just a pitch in my head anymore; it was a living thing, a pulse that matched my own. Popup venues. Authentic partnerships. Measurable engagement. Every sentence sharpened like a blade.

By the time I glanced at the clock, it was later than I thought. I shut the laptop, grabbed my bag, and slipped out the door, careful not to wake Tia.

The city outside was still shaking off its morning haze. Buses sighed at stops, and the sidewalks smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet. I walked fast, weaving through crowds, my mind running on two tracks: the campaign, and the echo of Tia's words.

He noticed you.

I pushed it away, fixing my eyes on the glass facade of Slate & Forge as it rose into view. The building caught the light, turning it into something bright and blinding. I tapped my badge at the security gate and stepped inside.

The hum of the office wrapped around me instantly, keyboards clacking, phones ringing, the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere near the break room. I headed toward my desk, the weight of the laptop bag pulling against my shoulder in a familiar way now.

Today, I thought, today I show them yesterday wasn't luck.

I had barely dropped my bag by my chair before I decided I needed coffee. Real coffee, not the travel mug stuff that had gone lukewarm in the car. The break room was down the hall, past the row of glasswalled offices and the open bullpen where a few early risers were already huddled over their screens.

The hallway was quiet. Just the muted shuffle of papers from somewhere behind me and the low hum of the ventilation overhead. My boots clicked against the polished floor, steady and deliberate. I rounded the corner, eyes half on the emails popping up on my phone, and,

Someone stepped out of a side office at the exact same moment.

I stopped short, catching myself against the wall, and a hand shot out, firm and sure, catching my arm just above the elbow.

"Careful," Adrian said.

His voice was calm, low, like we hadn't almost collided. For a second, we were too close, his hand still on my arm, the faint scent of cedar and something sharper lingering on his suit jacket. I straightened, and he let go, slow enough that I noticed.

"You move fast," he said, studying me with that cool, assessing look. "Not bad for day two."

I lifted my chin, forcing my heartbeat to settle. "And you still like sneaking up on people?"

One corner of his mouth curved. "It wasn't a sneak. You weren't looking."

"And you were?" I shot back before I could stop myself.

His eyes narrowed just a fraction, a flash of something unreadable there. "I always look. Comes with the job."

I folded my arms, finding my balance. "Well, if you plan on calling me out in meetings again, at least give me a warning next time."

"That's not how this works." His tone stayed even, but there was a glint in his eyes now, almost amused. "I don't warn people I expect results from."

I felt a laugh push at my throat but kept it buried. "Still playing your old games, Wolfe."

"Some games," he said, stepping past me, voice dropping just enough to make me catch every word, "are worth replaying."

And then he was gone, moving down the hall with that unhurried stride, hands in his pockets like he hadn't just dropped a spark in the middle of my morning.

I stood there for a beat longer than I meant to, my pulse quick and sharp, before I finally turned toward the break room, determined to get my coffee and shake off whatever that was supposed to mean.

The break room smelled faintly of roasted beans and whatever someone had burned in the microwave an hour ago. I poured myself a fresh cup, the liquid streaming dark and steady into the paper cup, and tried to slow my breathing.

I stared at the swirling steam. Replay. That's what he'd said. As if all those late nights in college, all those sparring matches that left me half furious, half exhilarated, were just… the first round.

I carried the coffee back to my desk, nodding at a junior associate who passed by with a stack of folders. My screen blinked to life as I sat down, the cursor on the open document waiting like it had been tapping its foot the whole time.

I read over the bullet points I'd written early that morning. For a second, my mind drifted, Adrian's hand steadying me in the hallway, the low timbre of his voice, the way he'd looked at me as if we were still standing on that campus stage, arguing under the hot lights.

Stop it, Ford.

I straightened in my chair, took a long sip of coffee, and forced my focus back to the framework. Popup venues. Interactive content. Measurable engagement. Each idea sharpened, honed, until the noise in my head dulled into something purposeful.

Emails pinged in. Claire forwarded a file. Julian sent a quick note: Impressive work yesterday. Keep going.

I smiled faintly, my fingers already moving over the keyboard. Whatever Adrian thought this was, a test, a game, a replay, he wasn't going to see me flinch.

I typed another line, refining the tagline for the Château Mirabelle concept, and glanced up, just briefly, toward the glass wall of Adrian's corner office down the hall. The blinds were halfdrawn. His silhouette moved behind them, a dark outline pacing, phone pressed to his ear.

A flicker of memory hit, his figure leaning against a campus railing, smirk in place, tossing me a challenge I could never ignore.

I shook it off, turned back to my screen, and let the rhythm of the keys drown out everything else.

Day two.

New ground.

Game on.