“Cheryl’s vision is fresh,” Louis finally said, his voice a little softer, less assertive than before. “It’s a new interpretation, and that’s what we need for this gala. Something unexpected.” 

He looked at Cheryl, a silent apology in his eyes for his muted response.

Joyce merely smiled, a triumphant glint in her eyes. “Fresh, yes. But sometimes, Louis, fresh isn’t always… enduring. We must consider the legacy of your work, after all.”

The meeting continued, but the earlier collaborative warmth had dissipated, replaced by a brittle tension. Cheryl found herself constantly on guard, analyzing every one of Joyce’s seemingly innocuous comments, dissecting the subtle barbs hidden within her “constructive feedback.” She realized with a chilling clarity that Joyce wasn’t just a former partner with a different artistic opinion. 

She was an active, calculating rival, using their shared past as a weapon, attempting to reassert her influence over Louis and subtly discredit Cheryl.

As the meeting drew to a close, Joyce gathered her portfolio with an air of quiet satisfaction. “Well, Cheryl,” she said, her voice dripping with a false sweetness, “it’s certainly… a direction. I’m sure Louis will guide you towards something truly spectacular.” 

She gave Louis a lingering, intimate look, a silent message passing between them, before sweeping out of the room.

Cheryl stood by the table, the scent vials suddenly feeling heavy in her hands. The initial excitement of her presentation had been thoroughly dampened. 

Louis approached her, his brow furrowed.

“Cheryl, I’m sorry,” he began, his voice low. “Joyce can be… intense. Her artistic vision is very strong.”

“She was trying to undermine me,” Cheryl stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “She wasn’t offering feedback; she was staking a claim. On you, and on the project.”

Louis ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of frustration. “I know. I… I tried to defend you. Her methods are… difficult.” 

He looked away, his gaze drifting towards the distant city lights visible through the window. “Our past… it complicates things.”

Cheryl looked at him, at the guardedness that had returned to his eyes, the subtle shift in his posture. He had defended her, yes, but not with the full force of conviction she had come to expect from him. 

He hadn’t truly stood up to Joyce, hadn’t completely dismissed her attempts to belittle Cheryl’s contribution. His hesitation spoke volumes, revealing a vulnerability, a lingering hold Joyce still had over him that Cheryl hadn’t fully grasped until now.

The chasm she had once perceived between their worlds now felt less like a void and more like a battleground. And Joyce, she realized, had just fired her first shot. 

This wasn’t just about art anymore. It was about something far more personal, far more dangerous.