A woman stood in the doorway, framed by the brighter light of the hallway. She was striking, with an elegant, almost architectural haircut and a confident, knowing smile. 

Her attire was impeccably tailored, a sharp contrast to Louis’s artistic disarray and Cheryl’s more ethereal, handcrafted aesthetic. She carried herself with an air of effortless command, as if she owned the space.

“Louis, darling, there you are,” she purred, her voice a smooth, cultured alto. “I heard you were back in the studio. Just wanted to pop in and see if you needed anything. You know how you get when you’re in the zone.”

Louis stiffened, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar, guarded distance. 

He turned, his expression unreadable. “Joyce,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of the earlier camaraderie. “I’m in a meeting.”

Joyce’s gaze swept over Cheryl, a quick, assessing glance that seemed to take in every detail of her appearance and the vials on the table, before settling back on Louis with an indulgent smile. “Oh, I see. A new collaborator, then?” 

Her eyes, a startling shade of green, finally landed on Cheryl, and her smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach them. “And who might this be?”

“Cheryl,” Louis supplied, his voice clipped. “She’s creating the scent installation for the gala.”

Joyce extended a perfectly manicured hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Joyce,” she introduced herself, her voice dripping with a honeyed charm that felt, to Cheryl’s sensitive nose, almost cloying. 

“Louis’s former artistic partner. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cheryl. I’ve heard whispers about your… unique approach.”

The way she said “unique approach” made it sound like a quaint hobby rather than a serious artistic endeavor. Cheryl felt an immediate, prickling unease. 

Joyce’s scent, a sophisticated, expensive floral, seemed to overpower the delicate notes Cheryl had been working with, asserting its dominance in the space.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Ms. Moreau,” Cheryl replied, trying to keep her voice even. She felt an instinctive pushback against the woman’s effortless confidence.

Joyce waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, please, call me Joyce. We’re all artists here, aren’t we? Though, Louis and I always dealt in grander strokes, didn’t we, darling? Entire worlds, not just… fragrances.” 

She turned back to Louis, her hand lightly touching his arm, a gesture that felt possessive, intimate. Louis flinched almost imperceptibly, his gaze flickering away from her touch.

“Cheryl’s work is integral to the immersive experience we’re creating,” Louis stated, his voice tight, trying to steer the conversation back to the project.

Joyce merely chuckled, a light, tinkling sound that grated on Cheryl’s nerves. “Of course, darling. I’m sure it is. But you know, Louis, I was just thinking about that incredible nebula piece we did for the Berlin exhibition. The way we layered the light, the sound… it was truly groundbreaking. I still get emails about it.” 

She looked at Cheryl, a knowing glint in her green eyes. “We had such a shared vision, Louis and I. A true synergy. It’s so rare to find that, isn’t it?”

Cheryl felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way Joyce’s gaze lingered on Louis, the way she spoke of their past as if it were a living, breathing entity that still bound them. 

It was a subtle, psychological maneuver, designed to diminish Cheryl’s presence and assert her own claim on Louis’s artistic legacy.

“Scent adds a completely new dimension,” Cheryl interjected, her voice firmer than she expected. “It’s not just about what you see or hear, but what you feel on a primal level. It grounds the cosmic, makes it personal.”

Joyce’s smile remained fixed, but her eyes held a flicker of something sharper. “Oh, I’m sure it does, dear. But Louis’s work… it’s always been about the vastness, the ethereal. Something so… grounded, might distract from that, don’t you think? We always aimed for the sublime, didn’t we, Louis?” 

She turned to him again, her hand still resting on his arm, her thumb stroking lightly.

Louis cleared his throat, pulling his arm away with a movement that was almost imperceptible, but not to Cheryl. 

“Joyce, we’re discussing the current project. Perhaps we can catch up later.” His voice was strained, his discomfort palpable.