Remastered Hearts

Marcus hated industry events. Hated the performative networking, the subtle positioning, the way everyone tracked who was talking to whom. But the Annual Digital Publishing Innovation Awards were unavoidable—especially since Soundcraft was nominated for Best Audio Production.

He tugged at his bow tie, already regretting letting Dom talk him into the full tuxedo.

"Stop fidgeting," Dom muttered, appearing at his elbow with two glasses of champagne. "You look fine. Very James Bond goes indie media."

"I look like a penguin having an existential crisis." Marcus accepted the champagne, scanning the elegant ballroom of the New York Public Library. The publishing world's elite mingled beneath soaring ceilings, their chatter echoing off marble walls. "How long do we have to stay?"

"Until they announce our category. And until you stop looking at the door every thirty seconds."

"I'm not—"

"She's here," Dom interrupted, nodding toward the entrance. "And damn."

Marcus turned, and his carefully constructed professional detachment crumbled. Maya wore deep emerald silk that caught the light as she moved, her hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck. The jade pendant—his pendant—rested just above her collarbone.

She wasn't alone. Ava Kumar, head of Preston & Associates, walked beside her, both women drawing admiring glances as they made their way through the crowd.

"Incoming," Dom whispered. "Your ten o'clock."

Before Marcus could escape, Thomas Chen—Maya's father and CEO of Chen Media Group—appeared in front of him. "Marcus Taylor. Been following your work with Soundcraft. Impressive pivot from traditional publishing."

Marcus shook the offered hand, acutely aware of Maya approaching behind her father. "Thank you, sir. Different medium, same goal—helping stories find their audience."

"Daddy." Maya's voice was carefully neutral. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Can't miss the industry's biggest night." Thomas's smile was practiced. "Especially with my daughter up for the Rising Star award."

Marcus glanced at Maya, who hadn't mentioned the nomination during their recording sessions. Her cheeks colored slightly.

"Marcus." Ava Kumar stepped forward, elegant in black and silver. "That podcast series you did on forgotten women inventors was brilliant. Have you met our newest client? Elena Reyes?"

And suddenly Elena was there too, resplendent in a traditional hanbok modernized with subtle geometric patterns. "Oh, we've met," she said, eyes twinkling. "Marcus is producing my audiobook. He's got quite the ear for kitchen acoustics."

The circle of conversation tightened, forcing Marcus and Maya closer together. He caught a hint of her perfume—still that same jasmine blend she'd worn when they were together.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice announced over the PA system. "Please take your seats. The ceremony will begin in five minutes."

"Maya, darling," Thomas said, "you'll sit with me at the Chen Media table?"

"Actually," Ava cut in smoothly, "I need her at the agency table. Shop talk." She steered Maya away with practiced ease, leaving Marcus to wonder if he'd imagined Maya's flash of relief.

The first hour of awards passed in a blur. Marcus half-listened to speeches about digital innovation and multimedia storytelling, his attention drawn repeatedly to Maya's table. She sat with perfect posture, applauding gracefully for each winner, the consummate professional.

"The award for Rising Star in Publishing..."

Marcus straightened as Maya's category was announced. The screen displayed the nominees: five young executives reshaping the industry.

"For her groundbreaking work in multimedia rights management and author brand development... Maya Chen!"

The applause was thunderous. Marcus found himself standing with everyone else as Maya made her way to the stage, her silk dress catching the spotlight.

"Thank you," she began, her voice clear and confident. "When I first fell in love with publishing, it was because of its power to amplify unique voices..." She paused, and her eyes found Marcus in the crowd. "To break boundaries and challenge conventions. To prove that stories can evolve and find new forms while keeping their heart intact."

Marcus felt a familiar ache in his chest. They'd spent countless nights talking about exactly that—the evolution of storytelling, the fusion of old and new forms. He'd used almost those exact words in his first business plan for Groundbreaking Press.

"This award," Maya continued, "belongs to every creator who's dared to reimagine their craft. Who's faced setbacks and emerged stronger, with new dreams to chase."

Dom elbowed Marcus. "She's talking about you, you know."

"She's making a generic speech about innovation—"

"Right. Because every publisher-turned-podcaster in the room is staring at her like they share a secret language."

Marcus was saved from responding by the announcement of his category. He barely registered the introduction, too caught up in watching Maya return to her seat. But then the words "Soundcraft Studios" boomed through the speakers, and Dom was shoving him toward the stage.

He gripped the podium, staring out at the sea of faces. "They say you can't go home again," he heard himself say, "but sometimes you find that home has evolved along with you. That the stories you loved to tell in one medium can find new life in another."

In the audience, Maya sat very still, her face unreadable.

"This award," Marcus continued, his voice rougher than he'd like, "is for everyone who's had to reinvent themselves. Who's discovered that sometimes letting go of one dream makes room for another one to grow."

The rest of the ceremony passed in a champagne-fueled haze. Marcus accepted congratulations, made networking small talk, posed for photos. But he was hyperaware of Maya's presence across the room, like some sort of emotional radar that had never quite turned off.

Later, as the crowd began to thin, he found himself alone by one of the library's massive windows. The city sparkled beyond the glass, a million lights in the darkness.

"Congratulations." Maya's voice was soft behind him. "The award is well-deserved."

He turned. She'd lost none of her impact up close. "You too. Rising Star."

"Funny, isn't it?" She moved to stand beside him, both of them looking out at the city. "Five years ago, we thought we'd be accepting awards together."

"Maya—"

"Mr. Taylor?" A young assistant appeared, tablet in hand. "Phone call from LA about the Wilson project. They say it's urgent."

Marcus hesitated, caught between past and present. The last time he'd stood with Maya near these windows had been at a different gala, six years ago. She'd worn blue that night, and they'd snuck away from the crowd to share contraband cookies from her purse, making fun of the pretentious canapés being served.

"One day," she'd said, brushing cookie crumbs from his jacket, "we'll be the ones giving the speeches. But I vote we serve real food. Maybe those dumplings from Golden Palace."

"Deal," he'd replied, catching her hand against his chest. "Though your father might have opinions about serving takeout at a black-tie event."

She'd laughed, fearless and bright. "Let him have opinions. We'll do it our way."

Now, looking at her in emerald silk, perfectly poised and professional, he wondered how many compromises they'd both made along the way. How many dreams they'd reshaped to fit other people's expectations.

"Go," Maya said quietly, and he caught the slight tremor in her voice that most people would miss. The same tremor she'd had the night he'd walked away from her family's offer of help. "Dreams evolve, remember?"

He took three steps before turning back. "That night," he said, "when I said some dreams have to die? I was wrong. They don't die. They just... transform."

Her face softened for just a moment. Then her professional mask slipped back into place. "See you in the studio tomorrow, Marcus."

He walked away, Dom falling into step beside him.

"Not a word," Marcus warned.

"Wasn't going to say anything." Dom paused. "Except that you both just gave speeches about evolution and transformation, and if you think that's a coincidence—"

"The Wilson project?"

"Made it up. Figured you needed an exit before you did something stupid like kiss her in front of the entire publishing industry."

Marcus stopped walking. "I wasn't going to—"

"Sure you weren't." Dom grinned. "Just like she wasn't wearing your favorite color. And just like you both didn't basically declare your undying love through metaphors about story evolution."

"I hate you."

"I know." Dom steered him toward the exit. "But I've got six weeks to get you two idiots back together, so I'll take the abuse."

Marcus glanced back one last time. Maya still stood by the window, her silhouette elegant against the city lights. Her fingers were at her throat, absently touching the jade pendant—a nervous habit he remembered from long nights of manuscript reading, when she'd fiddle with it while working through plot problems or difficult edits.

She'd tried to return it after the bankruptcy. He'd found the carefully wrapped box on his desk the day he signed the final papers. Inside, a note: "Some things shouldn't be kept out of obligation." He'd left both box and note on her desk at Preston & Associates that same night, with his own note: "Some things were never about obligation."

As if sensing his gaze now, she turned, her hand dropping from the pendant. For a moment, just a moment, they were the only two people in the room. He saw her lips part slightly, forming the beginning of his name the way she used to—not the careful "Marcus" she used now, but the softer version that had been uniquely hers.

Then Thomas Chen stepped between them, immediately engaging Maya in conversation with some industry executives, and the moment shattered like champagne glass hitting marble. Just like their shared dreams had shattered against the realities of pride, family expectations, and fear of dependency.

"You know," Dom said quietly as they walked away, "you both still look at each other the same way you did at that first publishing conference where I met you. Like everyone else in the room is reading the wrong script."