Chapter 20
Étienne
The highway stretched empty ahead, and I kept my eyes on the white lines while my mind circled back to what I'd seen that morning. Elena slept in the passenger seat, her breathing soft and even, and I should have been focused on driving, but instead I kept replaying the moment I'd opened her Instagram in the headquarters coffee room.
It had been just past noon when I'd given in to the impulse I'd been fighting all day. The rational part of my brain knew it was a mistake, but my thumb had moved almost on its own, scrolling through her recent posts.
The first photo was from last Friday—the day I'd deliberately flown to Monaco to avoid another weekend of her presence in the house, which had become both comfort and torment. The image showed the Seine at sunset, the sky painted in rose gold and amber that reminded me of her hair in certain light.
The caption was in French, slightly awkward: "Le coucher de soleil est romantique, mais tu n'es pas là." The sunset is romantic, but you're not here.
I'd stared at those words longer than I should have, my coffee cooling in my other hand. Last Friday. The day I'd been in Monaco. The day she'd been alone in Paris, watching the sunset without me.
Chloé's comment appeared beneath like a confirmation: "Wow, you're starting to miss him 😏" Oh wow, you're starting to miss him.
I'd scrolled to the next post, my thumb moving with mechanical precision. This one from the Sciences Po library—Elena surrounded by textbooks, hair in a messy ponytail, caught between concentration and exhaustion. The caption made my throat tight.
"Tu es toujours occupé, tu me mets dans un petit coin." You're always busy, you've pushed me into a little corner.
The accusation was impossible to miss. A direct commentary on my behavior over the past two weeks—working late, leaving early, avoiding extended interactions that had become increasingly difficult to navigate without betraying thoughts I couldn't silence. I'd been pushing her away, and she'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed. Elena noticed everything.
And now she was posting these coded messages that suggested hurt or confusion or—worst of all—the kind of longing that mirrored my own.
"You look terrible," Rémi had said from the doorway, and I'd nearly dropped my phone, my heart hammering with irrational guilt. He'd poured himself an espresso before turning to study me. "When's the last time you actually slept?"
"I sleep fine." The lie came easily, smoothly. The truth was I hadn't slept properly in weeks.
Rémi had settled into the chair across from me. "Your mother called this morning. Wanted to make sure you'd be at her birthday dinner tomorrow night."
"I'm aware. I'll be there."
"She mentioned Maxime coming by the house more frequently." His tone stayed carefully neutral. "Said he seems quite taken with Elena."
My jaw clenched at my nephew's name, at how casually Rémi linked it with Elena's. I forced myself to relax, adopting the measured tone I used in board meetings. "Maxime is young. He doesn't understand the complications—" I stopped myself, redirecting. "Elena is focused on training. The qualification rounds are in three months. She doesn't need distractions."
"Distractions," Rémi repeated, weighing the word. "Is that what we're calling it?"
I met his gaze, my expression neutral despite the coiling in my chest. "I don't know what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything." He took a deliberate sip. "I'm observing that you've been working yourself into the ground for two weeks, avoiding home until past midnight, and that Maxime has been spending unusual amounts of time at the house in your absence." He paused. "I'm also observing that you look like a man trying very hard not to think about something consuming every waking moment."
The accuracy felt like a physical blow. "I'm managing the situation appropriately."
"You're white-knuckling it," Rémi corrected. "You're like you're driving 001 in the rain at Monte Carlo, gripping that wheel so tight you can't feel when you're losing traction. And we both know how that ends."
The reference to my racing days was calculated to cut through my professional distance, and it worked. For just a moment, my control slipped. He was right. I was approaching this the same way I'd approached every challenging corner—with absolute focus, calculated precision, and unshakeable belief that perfect control over every variable would get me through without incident.
But this wasn't a racetrack. This was a twenty-year-old girl's life, her future, her capacity to trust. And the crash I was heading toward wouldn't just damage me—it would shatter her.
"I'm fine," I'd said. "Everything is under control."
Rémi had studied me before shaking his head slowly. "If you say so. Just remember—when you finally lose control, and you will, it won't just be you who crashes." He'd stood. "Think carefully about what you're willing to sacrifice before it's too late."
His words had stayed with me all afternoon, gnawing at the edges of my focus during back-to-back meetings. By the time I'd cleared my schedule around two, the restlessness had become unbearable. I'd told my assistant I was taking the rest of the day, that I could be reached by phone if absolutely necessary, and I'd driven out of Paris with no clear destination in mind except away—away from the office, away from the house, away from the constant effort of not thinking about her.
The highway had pulled me south almost on autopilot, the familiar route to Monaco unspooling beneath my tires. I'd told myself I was just driving, that I'd turn around eventually, but my foot had stayed steady on the accelerator as Paris disappeared in the rearview mirror. My right leg had started its familiar ache around the two-hour mark, the old injury protesting the sustained pressure, but I'd ignored it the way I'd learned to ignore most pain.
Some wounds never fully healed. You just got better at living with them.
I'd been somewhere past Lyon when Michel's call came through the car's system. His voice had been carefully controlled in that way that meant he was managing a crisis. "There's been an incident during training. Elena took a hard fall. She's stable, but I've ended the session. I thought you should know."
The bottom had dropped out of my stomach. "How bad?"
"Nothing broken, but she's shaken. More than usual." A pause. "She asked for you."
Those three words had done something to my chest, something that felt like breaking and mending simultaneously. "I'm already on the road. I'll be there in three hours."
I'd pressed down harder on the accelerator after that call, my right leg screaming in protest, the speedometer climbing past numbers that would have made my insurance company reconsider their rates. The drive that should have taken seven hours from Paris had taken five and a half, and by the time I'd pulled into the training facility parking lot, Elena had been walking out to meet me, her face carefully composed into that neutral calm that was her particular defensive armor.
Now, approaching Paris on the return journey, I glanced at Elena's sleeping form and felt something constrict in my chest. She'd been so quiet getting into the car, maintaining that careful composure. We'd driven in near-silence for the first hour until she'd broken the tension with that observation about my being a better coach than Michel.
The conversation that followed had been dangerous. When she'd mentioned wishing I were her father instead of her guardian, I'd felt my control begin to crack, the truth of what I actually felt threatening to surface.
I'd cut her off before she could finish the thought that started with "If you were my..." My response had been harsh, deliberately cold—a hard brake going into a corner: "I'm your guardian, Elena. That's what I am. That's what I'll always be."
The silence that followed was suffocating. I'd kept my eyes fixed on the road, refusing to look at her, because I knew if I saw hurt or confusion or longing in those amber eyes, my control would shatter completely.
She'd fallen asleep shortly after, and I'd felt shameful relief wash over me. The boundary had held. Barely.
I'd driven in silence for another hour before the chill prompted me to reach back for my overcoat. The deep gray cashmere still carried my cologne mixed with faint cigar smoke from late nights on the terrace, unable to sleep, staring at the skyline and trying not to think about the girl two floors above.
I'd draped the coat over Elena carefully, making sure she was covered without disturbing her sleep. My fingers lingered perhaps a moment too long near her collarbone, and I'd forced myself to pull back.
That was when it happened.
The highway curved gently left. Elena's head, resting against the window, slipped with the angle. I reacted on instinct, my right hand leaving the wheel to catch her head before it could fall completely.
My palm cupped her cheek, fingers spreading to support her skull. I'd meant to ease her head back against the seat, but before I could move, Elena shifted in her sleep, turning her face into my palm like a cat seeking warmth. Then her hands came up to wrap around my forearm, holding my arm in place with surprising strength.
Within seconds, she'd settled with her head pillowed on the edge of my hand, my arm stretched across the console at an awkward angle.