Page 1 of The Reborn

One

Olivia

Then . . .

The Italian sunlight kissed my face as I stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. The brisk breeze—that I’d swear held the faintest trace of chocolate cornetto and rich coffee—tousled my ponytail and made my mouth water.

I eyeballed the sign on the front of the studio as I waited for my summer roommate, Reni, to grab her bag and join me.

She slammed the door and the cab drove away. On a breath, she stood next to me but didn’t say anything for a second as we took in the moment. Around us, more cabs dropped off other dancers—eight others, to be exact—from eight different countries, as we descended upon this prestigious and unheard of opportunity to train with one of the best in the world in a rare, invitation-only, international summer intensive.

“Can you believe we made it to La Scala?” Reni breathed with her heavy Swedish accent.

A simple three-story beige cement and brick building, you’d never know from the outside what magic and creativity was housed inside its walls. What art.

I turned to study her stunning blue eyes as some of the other dancers began to head inside. “No.”

She grinned at me, showing her impossibly perfect white teeth. “Ready to go?”

I grinned back with a nod and took up the rear as the last dancer to enter the front doors. I wanted one more moment to breathe in this dream, reading the simple sign next to the door.

Accademia Teatro Alla Scalla. Milan. Est.1813.

Otherwise known as the La Scala Academy Ballet School. A lifelong ambition... or as long as I’d been a dancer and known of its existence.

Heart beating fast and ignoring the dull ache of jet lag that still clawed behind my eyeballs, I finally, finally stepped over the threshold of my long-held dream and took a big breath.

I didn’t have much time to study the details, other than note it was big and there was a lot of wood, and it smelled like linen, before Reni was waving me on anxiously to follow the group down a hall before I lost them.

I hurried to follow, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, my eyes skimming over the photos of dancers along the walls, my excitement growing as I recognized many of them.

We were shown into a moderately sized studio that was well lit both with the large industrial lights overhead, as well as the huge windows that let in the morning sunlight. Barres lined two walls and a state-of-the-art stereo system sat in the far corner.

The woman who had led us there, obviously a student, smiled demurely with a small bow. “Someone will be with you soon. Please make yourselves comfortable,” she said before exiting.

Everyone dropped their bags in the open corner and shed sweaters and shoes, as dancers do, until we were only in our dance attire. Some of us began to pace and stretch as if needing to move to burn off nervous energy. I simply rolled my neck and kept my eyes on the door.

“What the hell is this?” groused one of the men from the UK. “I thought we were here to learn. Not be ignored in the corner. Bloody hell.”

“She said someone would be here.” This from a small Black woman. I hadn’t caught her name or where she was from, but her accent sounded South African maybe.

The Brit shook his head with an agitated frown and strode to the window.

A few more people began to murmur under their breath and Reni shot me a look.

Then the door opened, and it was as though the very air became electric when he strolled in, as if walking on water. He was that graceful. That beautiful with his perfect jaw and headful of thick black curls, the few streaks of silver at his temples only adding to his regality.

The room became as silent as the bottom of the ocean, and just as thick, as everyone waited for him to speak, but instead of a lack of oxygen, it pulsed with energy.

My entire body was buzzing, and I swallowed hard against the fierce and automatic magnetic pull he stirred in my gut as he strode toward me, stopping only a few feet away to address the entire group.

“Good morning,” he said, his thick Italian accent coated in gravel. “I am Christoph Donato. I am the director of La Scala’s ballet program and your instructor for this summer. I want to personally welcome you and congratulate you for being chosen for this program. I know only the best of the best were chosen, and I very much look forward to working with you all. We will work very hard. The curriculum I have developed for the students here is rigorous, and I will treat you no differently, but...” His deep-hazel gaze slid my way, landing and holding with an unsettling intensity that sank to my core and felt entirely too personal. It felt like a promise. “I believe this summer will change your lives forever.”

Two

Olivia

I said goodbye to my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, for probably the seventh time, made sure there was extra juice and her favorite pink unicorn in her bag, gave yet another kiss, then hustled out the door of the daycare’s toddler room before the crocodile tears could start.

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