Odette woke to the dull ache of soreness deep in her thighs and spine, the kind that clung to her like fog after a storm. Her bedsheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat and sex. The air was still heavy with last night; she could still smell faint cologne and latex, the ghost of a man whose name she never asked.
She blinked at the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the grey light bleeding through her thin curtains. A cramp pinched in her lower back as she shifted, groaning softly, she pulled herself together. Her body was a map of bruises and tenderness, and some sick, dark part of her was glad for it. At least she had proof that the night happened. That she'd existed for a moment.
Rolling out of bed took effort. Her legs trembled slightly when they hit the cold floor. She padded barefoot to the bathroom, not bothering to grab a towel. The mirror above the sink greeted her with unkind honesty; mascara smudged into bruised crescents beneath her hazel eyes, her red hair a knotted mess of sweat and sin. She didn't bother brushing it out.
The shower came to life with a reluctant sputter, water lukewarm at best. She stepped under the stream and let it run down her body, washing away someone else's touch. The pressure was weak, but it was enough to clear the fog clinging to her skin. When she was done, she wrapped herself in an old towel and returned to her cluttered room, where the air was stale with cigarette smoke and damp laundry. The place looked even more pathetic in daylight. Her laptop waited on the corner desk, still open from where she had left off yesterday before going to the café. She tapped on it and it came to life, a blinking cursor frozen mid-application.
Sighing, she dropped into the wobbly chair, towel tucked tight around her chest. She clicked open her inbox.
Rejection.
Again.
The subject line was clinical, cold—"We regret to inform you..." She didn't even need to open the full message. It was the same template, different wording. Apparently, her writing didn't "align with our current publishing goals." As if that wasn't just a polite way of saying: you're not good enough.
She scoffed, blew out a heavy breath, and closed the tab.
Whatever. Fuck them.
She told herself she didn't care, that they didn't understand her kind of storytelling. Too raw. Too dark. Too real. They wanted fake optimism, happily-ever-afters. She didn't write like that. Life wasn't like that.
Her fingers hovered over the touchpad, ready to shut everything down and crawl back into her blankets for the rest of the day. Maybe get more cigarettes. Maybe eat half a slice of toast and cry. She hadn't decided yet.
Then it pinged.
New mail: "Notice of Inheritance – Chateau de Moreau".
At first, she thought it was spam. The kind of scam email sent by shady bots pretending to be dead royalty. She almost deleted it. But something, maybe the name, maybe the formal tone of the subject, stopped her.
She clicked to display the message:
Odette,
We regret to inform you of the passing of Monsieur Claude Moreau, your biological father, who died on the 17th of last month due to complications related to heart failure. As his next of kin, and sole surviving child, you have been named the inheritor of his estate, including the Chateau de Moreau, located in the South of France.
According to the terms of his will, you are required to take residence at the estate within two weeks of this notice. Failure to do so will result in the forfeiture of the inheritance and automatic transfer of property to the French government.
Please respond to confirm receipt and begin the formal transition process.
—Lenoir & Duvall, Notaries of Marseille
She stared at the screen. Read it again. Then again.
Chateau de Moreau? Claude Moreau?
Her brain struggled to make sense of the words. Her father. That elusive, absent ghost of a man who had walked out when she was six, leaving her mother shattered and chain-smoking herself into an early grave. She hadn't heard from him in over a decade. No calls. No letters. No apologies.
She had no idea he was even still alive, let alone living in France with a goddamn chateau. A laugh bubbled out of her, dry and bitter. "You've got to be kidding me."
She dragged her fingers through her damp hair, eyes still fixed on the email.
He was dead. Good.
But now he wanted to play father from beyond the grave? Leave her some ancient estate like that made up for everything? The rage flared unexpectedly, sharp and hot, but then died just as quickly. Because the truth was... she had nothing here.
Her rent had expired. The landlord, Mr. Houghton, was relentless and unforgiving. Her account balance was laughable. Her job applications were a graveyard of closed doors. Her dreams; whatever they'd been—felt like something she'd left behind in a student flat years ago, back when she still thought the world owed her something.
What did she have left in England? An ashtray full of bad habits. A laptop full of rejection. A phone full of contacts she hadn't spoken to in months. Miriam was the only person who might notice if she disappeared. And even then, only if she didn't show up at the club next Friday.
She looked around her tiny room—peeling paint, stained carpet, a sagging mattress held together by willpower and spite.
What was she clinging to? This?
She leaned back in her chair, exhaled toward the cracked ceiling, and let the silence settle.
France.
It sounded absurd. Like a fever dream. But at the same time, there was something intoxicating about it. Foreign. Unknown. A place with no past expectations. No memories of the things she failed to become.
A fucking chateau.
She snorted softly, shaking her head.
"Of course it's called Chateau de Moreau," she muttered. "Pretentious asshole."
Still... it wasn't like she had better options.
Her mother was gone. Her life here was in shambles. Maybe it wasn't even about the inheritance—maybe it was just about running away and finally having somewhere to run to.
Odette clicked "reply."
Her fingers hovered for a second before she typed.
'Received. Please send further details.'
She hit send before she could think too hard. Closed the laptop and stood up immediately.
That was that.
A beat passed. Nothing happened, nothing changed, and she realized this was actually happening.