The woman I had spent two decades becoming—the one who paid her business taxes on time, managed a payroll of thirty people, survived brutal heartbreaks, and finally learned to love her own solitude—where did she fit into this sleek, upgraded chassis? Or was she even allowed inside?
I ran my fingers through my hair. It was thick, liquid-smooth, and bounced with zero effort—not a single split end left from the endless rounds of bleach and hot tools I used to fight in my late thirties.
That forty-year-old version of me had finally reached a truce with her flaws. I had liked her. Well, mostly.
Sure, she was occasionally lonely, occasionally ate dark chocolate straight from the baking pantry while marathoning Korean dramas at 2:00 a.m., but she had real grit. She knew how to read a balance sheet, and she sure as hell knew how to spot a toxic man before he finished his first overpriced cocktail.
Now? I felt like a corrupt file in the simulation.
I pulled down the driver's side visor, staring into the vanity mirror. "Do actual twenty-somethings stare at themselves this long, or is this strictly a midlife crisis reboot behavior?" I muttered under my breath.
Before I could adjust my lipstick, a sharp, high-pitched chime rattled through my car speakers. My center console display flickered, and Mavrik's charcoal-suited avatar materialized over my GPS map, leaning against my speed dial button with infuriating poise.
"Negative self-talk lowers your internal SCAL attraction metrics by 4.2 percent, Miss Vance," Mavrik said, adjusting his dark silk tie with a crisp, digital snap. "Would you like me to deploy an authorized confidence module?"
I rolled my eyes, slamming the car into park. "I don't need a module. I need you to vacate my dashboard."
"Self-affirmation is mandatory under Section Eight of your active trial," he replied smoothly, giving me that insufferable, high-end concierge smile. "Repeat after me: I am a magnetic force of youth and unyielding potential."
"I'd rather swallow a box of glass."
Mavrik sighed with exaggerated pity. "Your resistance to the protocol is severely hindering your matching algorithm. But don't say I didn't warn you when the system intervenes externally."
He vanished with a quiet pop, restoring my navigation screen.
I slumped back against the leather headrests, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. How was I supposed to merge these two versions of myself?
The original twenty-something Arisa had been naive, chronically desperate for male validation, and far too eager to mistake basic attention for affection. The forty-year-old me had built walls so high and thick that even the decent ones needed a military-grade battering ram to get through.
And the scars from the recent past didn't just vanish because my collagen returned. Andrew—the thirty-nine-year-old tech founder with a cellar full of Bordeaux and zero emotional bandwidth—had ghosted me after ninety days of intense courtship, leaving me with a half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir and an Uber receipt from a date he was supposedly too busy to finish.
Forty-year-old me had sworn off low-effort men forever. But here I was, trapped in a youthful body, burdened with all the old baggage and none of the visible authority that usually kept predators at bay.
I let out a slow exhale, dismissing the lingering sting. Who do I want to be now?
The question hung in the quiet interior of the car, dense and heavy. I didn't have an answer, but sitting in a garage spiraling wasn't an option.
I keyed in the address of a quiet espresso bar tucked two streets away from the fashion district—somewhere with overpriced oat milk lattes and patrons who looked too busy to inspect my credentials.
The café was a warm, wood-paneled hideaway sandwiched between two concrete high-rises. The heavy glass door chimed as I pushed inside, the air rich with roasted Arabica beans, dark cocoa, and steamed milk.
I scanned the room, looking for a secluded corner table where I could pull up my iPad and review my firm's emergency supply chain emails.
Then my eyes landed on the tall, lean frame leaning against the pick-up counter.
Joshua Hudgens.
My heart gave a sudden, ridiculous thud against my ribs.
Joshua was a top-tier commercial model my agency had booked two years ago for our autumn campaign. He was six-foot-two of golden symmetry, quick wit, and the exact kind of devastating, effortless charm that made you want to hire him immediately and ban him from the building five minutes later.
He was currently scrolling through his phone in a fitted black turtleneck, his razor-sharp jaw catching the warm pendant lighting. He hadn't changed at all—still infuriatingly handsome, still projecting that relaxed, dominant confidence that used to make my executive team lose their collective train of thought.
Did he know? Could he see through this twenty-something skin?
I spun on my heel, intending to retreat through the door before his line of sight caught me.
"Well, well," a low, smooth baritone cut through the steam of the espresso machine behind me. "If it isn't the most striking distraction in the tri-state area."
I froze, closing my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning slowly around.
Joshua had stepped away from the counter, his dark eyes locked onto mine with a slow, devastating smirk—the kind of look that suggested he'd been expecting me all morning.
"You're walking out before ordering?" he asked, taking two deliberate steps toward me. His dark eyes glinted with lazy curiosity. "Or did my charming presence scare off the fashion district's newest mystery client?"
My brain hit a high-speed speedbump. Mystery client? He didn't recognize me as Arisa Vance, the CEO who had signed his twelve-thousand-dollar contract two seasons ago. To him, I was just an attractive, well-tailored woman in her early twenties.
I pulled my executive posture back into place, smoothing down the lapel of my ivory blazer. "I was evaluating the seating options, Mr. Hudgens. I didn't realize the counter came with a vanity exhibit."
Joshua's smirk deepened, a subtle spark of surprise flashing across his features at my tone. Most twenty-something-year-old women didn't address a top-tier male model with the dry, dismissive authority of a board chairman.
"Ouch," he murmured, placing a hand over his chest in mock agony. "Cold shoulder at 10:00 a.m.? And here I thought we had a moment. How do you know my name anyway? Do I need to be concerned about my security settings?"
"You were on a billboard in Soho for three months," I replied smoothly, crossing my arms. "Hardly classified information."
Before he could respond, my phone vibrated violently in my pocket. I pulled it out, glancing at the screen:
[SCAL SYSTEM]: Initiate active engagement with target. Penalty for retreat: Mandatory 30-minute public singing performance.
I glared at the screen, suppressing a groaning spiral. The system wasn't giving me an exit route.
Joshua leaned against the nearby wooden pillar, inspecting me with heightened interest. "You look like a woman who's calculating the yield on a corporate takeover—or deciding whether to order a double espresso."
"Both," I said flatly. "Though currently, the double espresso is winning."
The shift from total invisibility to high-definition scrutiny happened in the space of a single breath.
Pretending I hadn't spent forty years on this planet—or that I didn't know his exact coffee order and former contract rate—was supposed to be my tactical shield. Instead, standing two feet from Joshua Hudgens in the amber glow of the espresso bar, I felt entirely exposed.
"Do you know me?" I asked, leaning into a wide-eyed, innocent tilt of my chin and plastering on a bright, unbothered smile.