Joyce cleared her throat, a delicate, almost musical sound that nonetheless cut through the air. “It’s certainly… ambitious, Cheryl,” she began, her tone measured, almost commendatory. 

“Your passion for the narrative is clear. But I do have some thoughts, purely from an artistic direction perspective, of course.”

Cheryl braced herself. “I welcome constructive feedback, Joyce.”

Joyce smiled, a thin, elegant line. “Of course. My concern, Cheryl, is that while your approach is undeniably unique, it might be a little… niche for a gala of this scale. Louis and I, in our previous collaborations, always found that a more universal, perhaps even archetypal, aesthetic resonated most powerfully with the audience. We aimed for impact, for a visceral, immediate connection, rather than a layered, interpretive journey.”

She paused, letting her words hang in the air, then turned her gaze to Louis. “Don’t you agree, Louis? Remember the ‘Cosmic Genesis’ series? The way we stripped back the complexity, focused on the raw power? That’s what truly captivated people.”

Louis shifted in his seat, his posture becoming slightly more rigid. “Cheryl’s approach,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, “is about adding a new dimension. The scent isn’t just an accompaniment; it’s an integral part of the narrative. It’s designed to deepen the experience, not just mirror the visuals.” 

He looked at Cheryl, a flicker of reassurance in his eyes. “The layers are the point, Joyce. They invite a deeper engagement.”

Joyce nodded slowly, as if considering his words, but her expression remained unconvinced. “I understand the intention, Louis. But sometimes, in striving for depth, we risk losing clarity. The ‘Stellar Nursery’ scent, for instance. Heliotrope and ambergris for the birth of a star? It feels… delicate. Almost domestic. Louis and I always leaned towards something more abstract, more monumental. Something that truly conveyed the unimaginable scale of the cosmos, not just its pretty details.” 

She gestured vaguely at Cheryl’s mood board. “These pastels, for example. Louis’s projections are about raw, unbridled energy. They demand a boldness, a certain… gravitas that perhaps a perfumer’s palette might struggle to achieve.”

Cheryl felt a prickle of irritation. “My palette is designed to evoke, not just to decorate,” she countered, her voice firm. “The delicacy is intentional, Joyce. It speaks to the fragile beginnings, the quiet wonder before the explosion. And the ‘unimaginable scale’ can be conveyed through the contrast, the sudden shift to the supernova’s intensity.”

Joyce merely offered a sympathetic, almost pitying smile. “Of course, dear. But perhaps a more established artistic direction would serve the project better. Louis and I spent years refining a visual language that spoke to the sublime, the terrifying beauty of the universe. We found that certain olfactory profiles, when paired with his projections, created a truly immersive, almost overwhelming experience. Think of the ‘Dark Matter’ installation – the way the metallic notes and the sharp, almost acrid undertones amplified the sense of the unknown, the void. That was impact.”

She was subtly, but undeniably, framing her past work with Louis as the benchmark, the gold standard, implying that Cheryl’s vision was a deviation, an amateurish attempt to reinvent the wheel. She wasn’t just offering feedback; she was staking a claim, reminding everyone, especially Louis, of their shared history and artistic legacy.

Cheryl glanced at Louis. He was listening intently, his gaze moving between the two women. 

He had defended her, yes, but there was a hesitation in his posture, a subtle withdrawal. He wasn’t challenging Joyce’s underlying premise – that her past collaborations with him were superior, more “established.” 

He wasn’t shutting down her thinly veiled attempts to undermine Cheryl’s unique artistic voice. It was as if a part of him was still tethered to Joyce, unable to fully break free from the narrative she was so skillfully weaving.