Chapter Three

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.