Rediscovering Odette

Ten Years Ago

"Ughhh," I groaned as the annoying sound of my alarm jolted me from my beauty sleep. I couldn't believe it was Monday again. Personally, I loathed Mondays; they marked the end of a lovely weekend and the start of yet another boring, monotonous cycle that was, sadly, my life. You see, my parents-or more precisely, my papa-held a firm belief that the best way to keep my mamma's memory alive was by immersing me in everything she had loved. Unfortunately, that meant I had a packed schedule every day of the week: school from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., then ballet classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. On days without ballet, my schedule was littered with piano lessons and whatever else my dear father deemed appropriate for a young lady my age.

Groaning, I got out of bed and headed to the shower. After a long, hot shower that did nothing to wake me up, I knew I needed at least a cup of Earl Grey to truly kickstart my brain. I turned to the mirror. "Time to tackle and tame the beast," I said to my reflection, gazing forlornly at my massive mane of hair. I'd considered chopping it off multiple times out of frustration but restrained myself because it was the only thing I'd inherited from my mother. You see, my father is Italian, and their genes are notoriously strong, so I had his face, his nose, and the captivating Italian build and stare. My eyes, however, were "tainted," according to my insufferable aunt. She couldn't grasp that I didn't choose to have heterochromia; it wasn't my fault I had two different-colored eyes. My mother had called them a "beautiful gift from the gods," saying, "Your eyes, my sweet love, are like the rarest of gems-one the shade of the most beautiful forest and the other the richest of honeys." If only the kids at school agreed. I'd taken to wearing brown contacts to help me blend in.

After a painstaking 30 minutes and nearly half a tub of gel, I managed to wrestle my auburn hair into a respectable chignon at the nape of my neck and headed downstairs. "Morning, Papa," I greeted, kissing my father on the cheek.

"Cara Mia, you'll be late. And you know I hate it when you wear those awful contraptions in your eyes," he chided.

"Oh, Papa, they're called contacts, and besides, they help me see more clearly," I lied, hoping he'd drop it.

"All right, all right, I'll let it go. But you know your mamma loved your eyes," he said, his gaze drifting to the portrait of her that hung in the breakfast room. He did that a lot since she passed away. I knew it hurt him when I tried to bury the features she'd given me behind half-truths about eye defects or school regulations for my hair.

"I know, Papa, but I have a test, and you'd want me to excel, wouldn't you?" I tried to steer him from his grief.

"Oh, all right. But promise you won't be late tonight."

"The opera that Mama used to attend when she was pregnant with me is on tonight. Yes, Papa, I know," I said, interrupting him. "I won't be late. I wouldn't miss it for the world." I hugged him goodbye and exited the house before he could find something else to complain about.

I hurried out the front door, hopped into my red Porsche, and sped off to school. "I always forget how much I hate this place," I muttered as I drove past the sign that read "Ranksand College." I maneuvered my car into my usual spot before heading into the looming building. As I walked past people, I was reminded once again how truly and utterly alone I was-until I heard a familiar voice yelling my name down the hall.

"Odette! Odette!" I turned to see my best friend-my only friend, really-Anton sprinting toward me.

"Hi there, Swan," he teased, pulling at my hair and unraveling the chignon I'd spent close to an hour on.

"Hey! That's not fair!" I pouted, quickly trying to pull my hair back into a bun before it went wild.

"What's not fair?" he asked, his gray eyes-like the sky before a thunderstorm-fixed on me.

"You know how hard it is to manage this hornet's nest on my head," I said in mock annoyance. He only laughed, running his fingers through his blonde hair, which was so light it was almost white. It was one of the reasons we were friends; I had two different-colored eyes, and he had hair so strikingly pale that he looked like an anime character. We were the oddities in a sea of brown-haired boys and identically eyed girls. Although, I had a feeling he could have more friends than me; he was incredibly handsome and could have climbed the social ladder if he weren't stuck with me.

"Well, if you'd stop trying to conform to the impossible standards of barely pubescent teenagers, you'd be a lot happier with your hair and a lot less paranoid about it being called the Loch Ness monster-which, by the way, it doesn't resemble in the slightest," he said pointedly. "And don't think I haven't noticed you're still wearing those horrible contacts. You know you don't have any eye defects, right?"

"Firstly, you're also a barely pubescent teenager, and secondly, if I let my hair loose, I'd look like the Loch Ness monster," I retorted, emphasizing the "would" as I grabbed his hand and dragged him to our AP Biology class.

"Firstly," he said, mimicking my tone, "I am decidedly not a pubescent teenager. Mindy can tell you all about that," he smirked.

I gagged internally. "I really don't want to hear about your 'sexcapades,'" I said, visibly shuddering.

He winked at me and continued. "Secondly, you wouldn't look like the Loch Ness monster. And even if you did, we'd start a magical creatures club, with you as the Loch Ness monster chairwoman and me, the ever-handsome wizard, as secretary," he said, smiling.

"And we would lord over our troops of insipidly boring human subordinates," he added, ruffling my hair like I was a dog.

"What ever would we do in our spare time, seeing as we'd be so busy lording and all?" I asked, dodging his hand before he could frizz my hair further. He had an uncanny knack for making my hair look wild.

"Oh, we'd drink their blood and count our money," he said, scrunching his face and pounding his fist on the table. I couldn't help but keel over with laughter at how cute he looked.

"Oi, Anthony!" one of our classmates called out.

"It's Anton, not Anthony, you dipstick! You'd think you'd know by now, considering how loud your mom screamed it last night," Anton retorted venomously.

People around us snickered. It had become something of a trend for people to call him "Anthony" instead of "Anton," and he hated it, saying they were trying to erase his identity.

"Funny, albino. The principal's looking for you, Antony," the guy, whose name I couldn't remember, sneered.

"Call me Antony one more time, Jeff, I dare you," Anton said angrily, standing up to glare at him. Ah, Jeff-that was his name. It was forgettable, much like the guy himself.

"What are you gonna do about it, huh? Report me to Daddy Malfoy?" Jeff sneered, provoking Anton further.

"It's not worth the detention you'll get," I said, hoping to defuse the situation. Anton looked at me, then took one last glare at Jeff before storming out of the room. I glared at Jeff, just as I was about to chastise him-a decision I'd surely regret-when our teacher walked in, and class began.

Mr. Perez, our biology teacher, droned on about the Krebs cycle for the entire double period, but I found it nearly impossible to focus. Anton's absence weighed heavily on my mind. I tried to discreetly text him, asking if he was all right, but just as I was about to hit send, my phone was snatched from my hands.

"No phones in class, Falcone. You know that," Mr. Perez said, placing my phone on his desk. "Detention after school today. You can retrieve it then," he added with finality.

After AP Bio, I headed to philosophy class. The empty seat beside me, which Anton usually filled, left me even more worried. By the time lunch arrived, I was bordering on paranoia. Anton had never missed a day of school, so whatever was going on had to be serious. I really hoped his family was okay.

At the close of school, I stroll into detention and take my seat by the window. Just as I'm about to start doodling in my notebook to pass the time, a ball of paper hits my now-frizzy hair.

"Oi, Granger! Didn't expect you here. Where's your usual sidekick, Malfoy?" Jeff says, causing everyone in detention to turn to me.

"Oh, Jeff, don't you know? I heard he ran from our dear Odette before her hair could strangle him," someone else adds.

"If you're all done making fun of Miss Falcone, I'd like some order in my detention room, please," Mr. Perez says, making everyone fall silent. I count down the minutes to the end of detention, then dash out of the school building to my car after retrieving my phone from a very tired-looking Mr. Perez.

Once inside the comfort of my car, I dial Anton's number, trying to reach him. "Sorry, the number you called does not exist. Please check that it is dialed correctly," the answering machine replies. I redial a couple more times and am met with the same response. Just as I'm about to try again, I see a message from my dad reminding me not to be late.

"Shit," I mutter. I had completely forgotten I had plans. I rush home, barely keeping to the speed limit, and hop into the shower. As I get out, I brush my mane of hair free and add some conditioner to prevent frizz. I get dressed in an emerald green Vera Wang dress that belonged to my mother, put on the simple diamond studs I got for Christmas last year, and spritz on my mother's signature perfume.

Today is my parents' anniversary, and I know my father likes to celebrate it with me to keep my mother's spirit alive. I did my best to look as my mother would have loved: free waves of auburn hair flowing down my back, my face bare of makeup, and her favorite perfume-Shalimar by Guerlain-lingering on my skin. I tell myself it's to keep my father happy, but the truth is, I do it to pretend she's still here. I wear her perfume so I can still smell her, not the putrid smell that clung to her mangled body on the road as I tried to keep her heart beating, but the deep vanilla scent she left behind when she'd hug me after my recitals.

I shake myself out of my dark thoughts and wander down the steps to meet my father.

"Stunning, cara mia, just stunning," my father says as he hugs me.

"Come on, old man, let's go before the soloist finishes the first sonata," I tease him as we stroll to the town car. He only ever orders a limousine on special occasions like this. He says he would have done it for my mother if she were here, so I never complain. Even though I know his business has been slowly going bankrupt since she passed-her death left him depressed, and his employees started embezzling funds. Now, he's somewhat out of the worst of it, and the business is doing better-not great, but better. Things like expensive operas and rented limos seem unnecessary to me, but I keep quiet because these little luxuries are what keep my father sane.

The opera is lovely, followed by an even lovelier dinner at Novikov. As soon as I get home, I undress and get ready for bed. I try Anton again, and the reply is the same as before. I fire off a few worried emails to his account, but each one bounces back, saying the address does not exist. I try his social media, but it's like none of his accounts ever existed. Growing increasingly worried, I consider going to his house, but it's late, and I've never been there before. We always hung out at my place. I'd never even met his parents-any time I brought up coming over, he shut it down, saying his parents didn't like visitors. The only reason I even have his address is because I copied it off the school register once when I wanted to plan a surprise party for him, an idea that was quickly shut down since we both clearly lacked friends.

I look out the window and make up my mind. I need to see him; maybe something terrible has happened. I know how much I needed support after my mom died. So, with a determined heart, I sneak out the window of our townhouse, hop on my bicycle, and pedal to the nearest bus stop.

When I finally reach the address I copied, I'm confused. There's no house here; in fact, the area isn't even residential. As I walk along the length of the abandoned amusement park, my confusion grows. Only then do I realize that I left the house in my pajamas without my phone. What if something happened to me here? How would I call for help?

Just as panic starts to set in, I feel a familiar presence behind me, or maybe it's just hysteria. But before I can sort out my muddled thoughts, a voice cuts through with a sigh. "You never really did know when to stay away, did you, Swan?" Anton says sternly from behind me.

I turn to hug him, but I'm shocked when he pushes me away.

"I don't understand. Are you okay? You left school, and I tried reaching you, but your line suddenly didn't exist, and every mode of contact had just vanished, like you were wiped off the internet," I say, trying to lighten the mood as I stare into his eyes that shine like metal discs under the moonlight.

"So I go ghost, and your brilliant idea is to come looking for me?" he asks.

"Of course it is. You're my best friend, my only friend. I couldn't just leave you," I say. "Did anything happen? Are your parents okay?"

I see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it's gone before I can decipher it. There's a strange silence before he breaks into a bitter laugh.

"You're here, standing in the middle of an amusement park you thought was my home, and the first question you have is if I'm okay?" he says, his voice tinged with barely concealed anger that leaves me confused. As his words sink in, it hits me that I'm standing in the middle of nowhere in my pajamas.

He notices my realization. "Remembered where you are, didn't you?" he says with a dark edge.

"I don't understand," I breathe out. "What's happening? What's wrong with you?"

"You should go now, Swan, before your father realizes you're gone," he says, wrapping me in his jacket. "And next time, don't leave the house barely clothed. I won't always be here to keep you warm," he adds, turning to walk away.

"Where are you going? What's happening?" I ask, reaching to hold his hand.

"Don't touch me," he hisses, snatching his hand away with a sneer. I step back in shock, deadly confused.

"Do me a favor, Falcone. Forget I exist, because I've forgotten you do," he says one last time, leaving me standing in the middle of nowhere.

That night, when I get home, I don't even try to be silent as I walk in. As soon as I reach the kitchen, I slump and break into sobs. My papa's warm hands come to hold me after a few minutes.

"What is it, cara mia?" he asks with concern. I look up at him and whisper, "He's gone."

Ten Years Later

"Amerie! Amerie! We're going to be late if we don't leave now!" I called out to my flatmate, hoping she was ready. I loved her to death, but she always got on my nerves in the morning-especially since she was my ride to work. Despite living in New York for three years, I still couldn't comfortably drive on these streets. It's as if the road laws here are more of a suggestion than an actual rule.

"We'll be thirty minutes early if we leave now, you British wanker," she called back. I rolled my eyes at her response-a very typical Amerie comeback if there ever was one. I liked to be at least an hour early to work so I could grab breakfast there, and Amerie knew this, but she enjoyed flirting along the lines of late and just on time.

Amerie and I had met when I moved here from London. After my dad died, I couldn't stay in England anymore; the thought of it filled me with sadness. So when my Cambridge professor offered to recommend me to a friend who owned an interior design company, I jumped on the opportunity. On my first day at Claude's Staging, the interior design and architecture firm I work at, I met Amerie. She was running late, and I covered for her in a meeting. We've been inseparable ever since.

"You do know you don't have to eat at work, right? You could easily afford to DoorDash breakfast, and don't even try denying it. Everyone at work knows you're an heiress," she said, coming out of her room.

"Well, I'm not even going to dignify those rumors with a response. And I actually like breakfast at work," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Babes, you've got that posh accent-and not the 'Oh, look at me, I grew up in England' type, but the one that says 'I come from money.' You walk, talk, and have that whole French-Italian heiress vibe around you," she added, pouring her coffee.

Just as I was about to reply, she added, "You drink Earl Grey tea and eat croissants with strawberries every morning. And don't forget the fact that you swear in different languages-French if you're annoyed, Italian if you're anxious."

"All right, all right, I get it. I'm from money and can afford breakfast. But I really do love the croissants at work," I said, defending myself.

"You love the croissants, or you love the chef who makes them every morning?" she said, winking at me.

I couldn't help but blush-not because I had feelings for Daniel, our chef at work, but because, due to my previous lack of friends, I hadn't really experienced talking about crushes or relationships while growing up. The topic always embarrassed me.

"I do not like Daniel," I said pointedly, trying to keep a straight face as we headed to the car.

"Yeah, you don't; you just enjoy screaming his name," she teased, laughing as she started driving.

"Oh my gosh, it was one time, putain de merde [fucking hell], and I didn't scream! You know this. You also promised never to bring it up again," I said, smiling. Daniel and I had hooked up after an office party last month, and Amerie had not let me live it down ever since. It had been painfully boring, and I regretted it immediately. Nowadays, I just smiled awkwardly and avoided him whenever I could, and Amerie knew this but enjoyed teasing me. Perks of being friends with her, I guess.

After a while, we pulled up to work and took the elevator up to our office. Just as I was about to settle in and get ready to tackle today's workload, the intercom interrupted me: "Staff meeting in five minutes, everyone. It's a Code Black."

"Shit! We better hurry up," one of my coworkers, Doug, said, practically jumping out of his chair.

As we stepped into the elevator, Amerie leaned in, saying, "I wonder what it's about." Apparently, she wasn't as quiet as she thought, because someone in front of us said out loud, "Oh, there's a big client trying to hire us. I think he owns Rosier or something."

I audibly gasped, and Amerie turned to me. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"What's his name again?" Doug asked no one in particular. God, could this elevator move any faster?

"I think it starts with an 'A,'" another person said.

"Anthony, right?" Doug guessed.

"No, it's not Anthony, it's Anton," I whispered, causing everyone in the elevator to stare at me.

"I need to get out of here," I said to Amerie.

"You know you can't," she replied, dragging me from the elevator. I followed her into the conference room in steps that didn't feel like my own as our CEO, Claude, walked to the head of the conference table with a face I'd never forget.

"Shit, he's hot-like, really hot," Daisy, an insufferable office pick-me from the architecture division, whispered. I kept my head down, not wanting to see him or be seen by him.

"Good morning, everyone. I'd like to introduce you to a new client of ours, Mr. Dimitri," Claude said, beaming at us. Everyone around me clapped and smiled; they knew this was a huge deal. If Rosier Group decided to partner with us, it would catapult our small interior design and architecture firm to new heights. Rosier Group owned the renowned Lebed Hotels and multiple clubs, restaurants, and bars. Everyone knew they wanted to expand into real estate. I'd thought they'd start in their headquarters back in England before venturing into the USA, but apparently, it was the other way around.

My thoughts were cut short as Claude continued, "Mr. Dimitri here has decided to start a real estate branch in New York and would love for us to design the apartments his company just acquired." She could barely contain her joy as she went on about what would be needed and the team's requirements.

I felt a familiar stare prickling at my forehead, but I kept my head down and continued taking notes. The second the meeting ended, I scurried out of the conference room and took the stairs down to my cubicle, not wanting to wait for the elevator. Once in my space, I buried my head in my hands, sighing as I tried to process what had just happened.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il fait ici, putain, pourquoi est-il ici?" [Why the hell is he here, what is he doing here?] I muttered in a mix of French and English, which I often did when I was nervous or on the edge of a panic attack.

"What's wrong, Dotty?" Amerie asked, using that insufferable nickname that everyone had adopted.

"You know I hate when you call me that," I replied, trying to get a hold of myself.

"Oh, I called your name multiple times and you didn't answer," she said, scrunching her brows.

"You really shouldn't do that; you'll get wrinkles," I said, gesturing to my forehead, trying to change the subject. She caught on and smiled.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that Black don't crack?" she joked, and we both laughed. But the look in her eyes said she'd bring this up again, probably when we were home, away from watching eyes.

Just as things were beginning to quiet down, someone said out loud, "He's so hot. Gosh, I wish I could climb that."

"You'd climb anything with legs, Mira," Kate, a colleague, replied.

"Oh, come on, Kate, you have to admit he's smoking hot-with those dreamy eyes and white-blond hair tied in that sexy man bun," Daisy chimed in.

"I admit, he was good-looking, and his arms were so lean and muscular. I'm pretty sure I saw a tattoo peek out from his suit," Kate said dreamily.

I ignored them and tried to focus on my work as the talk of how hot he looked droned on. It was as if everyone forgot we still had work to do.

Suddenly, silence fell over the office. I looked up to find our boss, Claude, standing in front of us with him and his team.

"Okay, guys, I've been in talks with Mr. Dimitri for over two weeks now, and based on his preferences, I've put together a team," Claude announced. I tuned her out, barely listening as she listed the names of those who would be working on the project. As much as I loathed him, I knew this would be a great opportunity. But I didn't expect to be chosen, since Claude usually selected senior staff with more experience.

I wasn't surprised when my name wasn't called, but I was a bit shocked to hear Daisy's name. She'd been here almost five years, but I'd always found her approach to things a bit lazy and average at best. Just as Claude was about to congratulate the selected team members, she was tapped on the shoulder by one of the client's assistants. The assistant whispered something in her ear, and she asked, "Are you sure?" before clearing her throat.

"Oh, Miss Odette Falcone-the Rosier Group has specially requested that you join the team," Claude announced.

I was too shocked to speak. Amerie hugged me excitedly, forgetting the standard propriety expected in front of clients.

After she's done speaking, Claude leaves the office, followed by his assistant and then, finally, him. I can still feel his gaze lingering on me long after he leaves.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so proud of you!" Amerie says, still hugging me.

"Thanks," I say, forcing a smile.

"Why aren't you more excited?" she asks, confusion marring her face.

"Oh, I am. It's just a delayed reaction, I guess. I'm still in shock," I lie through my teeth. I can see clearly that she doesn't buy it, but for the second time today, she lets it go.

"This weekend, you and I are going to have a long talk, Missy," she says with finality. "And don't even think of escaping it," she adds as she turns back to her work.

The day goes on as usual, and when it's time for lunch, I head down to the food court to get something to eat. As I'm plating my food, Daniel pops up beside me.

"You should try the lentil soup," he says with a smile. "I made it just the way you like."

I can't help but smile up at him. Daniel is perfect and cute; I guess I should give him another chance.

"I'll try the soup," I say, smiling up at him. Just then, I see a shadow cast over me. He may have grown a foot or more taller and maybe a tad wider, but I recognize his presence instantly.

"What's in the soup?" Anton asks with that annoyingly beautiful drawl of his. His accent was always the perfect blend of Queen's English and Russian-smooth and velvety, yet as sharp as a double-edged sword.

"Oh, it's just the regular ingredients, you know," Daniel sputters, clearly affected by Anton's presence.

"And what might those ingredients be?" Anton presses.

"Uhm, Daniel, this is Mr. Dimitri," I say to Daniel. "He's a new client of ours."

"Oh, that's lovely. Nice to meet you," Daniel says, swapping the can of soda in his right hand to his other and extending his hand to shake Anton's. A gesture that clearly irritates Anton, as he stares at the extended hand with something akin to disgust.

In a bid to end the sheer awkwardness of this moment, I say, "I look forward to trying the soup, Daniel."

"Oh, thanks! It's a simple recipe, really. I could teach you sometime," he says hopefully, dropping his hand.

"Yes, maybe you could," I reply, as he hugs me and walks off, muttering to himself.

"You really do know how to pick 'em, Swan, don't you?" Anton says from behind me.

I turn to face him and stare. "Don't," I say.

"Sorry?" he asks, clearly confused.

"Don't remember me," I say, turning to walk away.

"Swan, wait. Let me explain," he says, reaching for my hands. I snatch them away like he did to me ten years ago.

"I've forgotten who you are, Anton. I'd expect you to do the same with me. I am not Swan, nor am I Odette. I am Miss Falcone, a simple employee of yours, unfortunately," I say without emotion, staring into his eyes-eyes I once harbored a schoolgirl crush for, eyes that meant the world to me.

And after what feels like a million heartbeats, just as he opens his mouth to speak, I walk away.