POV: Scarlett Mitchell
Scarlett recognizes the office, but it doesn't recognize her.
The Mitchell Building stands on Savile Row, all glass and steel and success. The lobby still has her mother's favorite paintings. The ones Scarlett spent hours looking at as a child while her father worked upstairs. She's standing in front of one now, a woman in a garden, looking lost.
She looks like herself.
The elevator ride to the top floor feels longer than it did when she was seventeen. When she would ride it up to surprise her father with lunch he didn't want and company he tolerated. She was important then. She was a Mitchell. A name that meant something.
She's still wearing that name, but it doesn't feel the same.
The office doors open and there he is.
