Chapter 12
Elena
The car ride felt longer than usual, stretched thin by silence. Étienne kept his eyes on the road with that particular intensity he brought to everything—the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fade away, including me sitting three feet away, trying very hard not to fidget with the Dior black velvet bow clip I'd fastened just above my left ear.
I'd bought it last winter during one of those frantic pre-Christmas shopping trips on the Champs-Élysées. The salesperson had made such a production of it—"only fifty pieces available in Paris, mademoiselle"—that I'd worked myself into a panic right there in the boutique. What if I never found it again? What if this was my only chance?
I'd complained about it to Étienne that night over dinner, going on about how unfair it was that French brands deliberately created scarcity. He'd looked at me with that expression he got when I said something he found simultaneously naive and amusing, then launched into a fifteen-minute lecture on marketing strategy.
"It's not about fairness, Elena," he'd said, cutting his steak with surgical precision. "Scarcity creates desire. Veblen goods derive their value precisely from being difficult to obtain. The exclusivity isn't a side effect—it is the business model."
I'd stopped listening halfway through, too busy watching his hands move, the way his mouth shaped words like each one had been carefully selected. By the time he'd finished—complete with references to economic theory I definitely hadn't understood—I'd forgotten why I was upset.
That was Étienne. Ask him anything and you'd get a graduate seminar instead of sympathy. Mention a meme or internet joke and you'd either get blank incomprehension or a lecture about "appropriate language." It was exhausting, this constant need to translate my thoughts into his particular dialect of formal French before speaking.
I pulled down the sun visor to check my reflection, adjusting the bow for what had to be the fifth time. The car's lighting made my skin look even paler than usual, washed out against the ivory of my dress.
"Does this look okay?" I asked, angling my head. The bow sat slightly crooked now. "I mean, does the hair thing work?"
Étienne glanced over, so briefly I almost missed it. His eyes tracked across my face, down to where the bow nestled in my hair, then away. "They all look the same to me."
The dismissiveness stung. I'd spent twenty minutes this morning trying different styles, trying to find the right balance between "I made an effort" and "I definitely didn't spend twenty minutes on this." And he couldn't even pretend to notice.
I must have made some sound because he sighed. Not the impatient sigh he used when I interrupted his work, but something softer. The kind that meant he knew he'd said the wrong thing and was about to make an effort to fix it.
"Pull it back," he said, voice gentler. "Put your hair up completely. Let your face show."
I gathered my hair with both hands, twisting it into a knot at the base of my neck. The bow shifted and settled into a new position. Better. It did feel better this way.
"Like this?"
But he'd already returned his attention to the road, jaw tight, hands at ten and two like he was taking a driving test. The moment of softness had passed, locked away behind whatever walls he kept rebuilding between us.
We pulled up to the Sciences Po entrance where students were already gathering, that pleasant buzz of multilingual conversation filling the air. I reached for the door handle but didn't pull it, suddenly reluctant to leave the enclosed space of the car.
"What time should I be ready? For you to pick me up?"
"You have training this afternoon." His eyes stayed forward.
"I know, but I can take the Metro after class. You don't need to—"
"No." The word came out sharp. He caught himself, softened his tone. "Wait. Don't go yet."
My hand froze on the handle, heart suddenly beating faster. He wanted me to stay? Maybe this was it, maybe he was finally going to acknowledge the strange tension between us.
"Why?" I tried to keep my voice light. "Did you forget something?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Your friend. Chloé. She's not here yet."
Oh. Of course. Not about me at all—about Chloé, who'd been making increasingly obvious attempts to flirt with him, who'd declared him her future husband within five minutes of meeting him.
"She's probably running late," I said, settling back with resignation that tasted bitter. "She always is."
"We'll wait." Not a suggestion. A statement. "I don't want you standing alone."
If she doesn't see you, I thought, she'll be miserable all day. The realization settled in my chest with a weight I didn't want to examine—that Chloé's happiness somehow hinged on these brief glimpses of Étienne.
As if on cue, Chloé came barreling around the corner at her usual barely-controlled run, backpack bouncing, hair escaping from a hastily assembled ponytail. She spotted the car and her entire face lit up.
She made a beeline for the driver's side window. Étienne lowered it with obvious reluctance.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Beaumont!" Chloé's French tumbled out in a rush of Québécois enthusiasm. "Vous êtes tellement—oh my God, you're so jeune! Et beau! Like seriously, you could be in magazines—"
"She's saying you look young," I cut in quickly, heat creeping up my neck. "Jeune. That's what she means."
"Hello, Chloé." Étienne's voice carried that particular note of patient forbearance. "Nice to see you again."
Chloé practically vibrated with excitement. She pulled out her phone, fingers already moving.
"Can I have your Instagram? I promise I won't be weird. Well, I'll try. Actually, no promises."
I expected him to refuse. But to my surprise, he rattled off his handle like he was giving directions.
Chloé's fingers flew. "Got it! Okay, this is step one."
"Step one?" Étienne's eyebrow rose fractionally.
"Of becoming Elena's aunt, obviously." Chloé said it with such cheerful certainty. "I figure if I'm patient and charming—"
"Chloé." I tried to inject warning into her name.
"Both of you should eat properly today," Étienne said, redirecting. "Don't get so caught up in studying that you forget lunch. Elena especially—Michel will notice if you're running on empty."
The reminder sent a spike of anxiety through my chest. Michel had already lectured me twice this week about maintaining consistent energy levels.
"I won't forget," I promised.
Étienne nodded. I finally opened the door and stepped out. Chloé immediately grabbed my arm, but not before I caught Étienne's eyes one last time. He looked tired, with shadows under his eyes that matched mine.
The car pulled away and Chloé spun to face me, practically bouncing. "Oh my God, Elena. That man. I am going to marry him. I don't care if it takes ten years."
"You say that about every attractive man."
"This is different! Did you see how he looked at you? Like you're this precious thing?" She clutched her chest. "And then he actually gave me his Instagram. Do you know what this means?"
"What master plan?"