Chapter 24
Elena
I found Étienne in the hallway leading to the courtyard, adjusting his cufflinks with that precise focus that reminded me he was about to perform, about to put on his public face. He looked up as I approached, and I watched him consciously school his expression into something more neutral, watched the warmth drain from his eyes even as something in me protested the loss.
My heart was already racing before I spoke, my palms damp despite the cool air. "Isabelle sent me to tell you the cars are ready," I said, then lowered my voice, leaning in slightly even though we were alone. "And to warn you that she's planning to introduce you to someone tonight."
His eyebrows rose fractionally. "She mentioned this?"
"Not directly. But I overheard her on the phone with someone named Sophie de la Tour." The name tasted bitter in my mouth, and I had to resist the urge to wrap my arms around myself. "She called her 'ma chère amie' and said she was looking forward to introducing her to her son." I paused, watching for his reaction, my fingers worrying at the edge of my shawl. "Apparently Sophie is recently divorced, impeccably connected, and exactly the kind of woman your mother thinks would make an appropriate match for the head of the Beaumont Group."
Something flickered across his face—resignation mixed with irritation—before he smoothed it away, and I felt my chest tighten at how easily he could mask his feelings. "Of course she is. My mother has been increasingly vocal about wanting to see me 'settled' this year. She views matrimony as another form of strategic alliance."
"Is that what marriage is in your world?" The question escaped before I could stop it, my voice sharper than I'd intended. I felt my hands curl into fists at my sides. "Just a strategic alliance?"
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I felt pinned by his gaze, felt my breath come faster. "In the circles my mother operates in? Often, yes. It's a form of path dependency—you marry within your class, your social network, your sphere of influence. Individual desire, personal compatibility, even affection—they can all be sacrificed for the right alliance." His mouth twisted, and I wanted to reach out and smooth away that bitter expression. "It's how empires are maintained. Personal feelings can be... inconvenient variables."
"That sounds lonely," I said quietly, and I heard my voice crack slightly on the last word.
"Perhaps," he replied, his voice carefully neutral, but I saw his jaw tighten. "But loneliness is preferable to the chaos of letting emotion dictate decisions that affect everyone dependent on you." He met my eyes, and I felt the words like a warning, like a wall being built between us. "Some of us don't have the luxury of choosing based on what we want rather than what's required."
I should have left it there. Every instinct trained into me said to step back, to accept the boundary, to be the good ward who didn't push. Instead, I felt my chin lift in unconscious defiance, felt something reckless surge through me. "And do you want that?" I heard myself ask, my voice steadier than I felt. "For your mother to arrange a strategic marriage? To spend your life with someone appropriate rather than someone who—"
I stopped abruptly, my hand flying to my mouth as I realized what I'd almost said. Heat flooded my face, and I felt my heart hammering against my ribs. The silence stretched between us, and I couldn't look away from his face, couldn't miss the way his expression shifted.
"What I want is irrelevant," he said quietly, but his voice had gone rough around the edges. His jaw tightened, and then he asked, the words seeming to escape without permission, "Do you... do you also hope I'll pursue a relationship with her?"
The question hung in the air between us, and I felt time slow, felt every nerve ending come alive. My heart was racing so fast I thought he must be able to hear it. I opened my mouth, closed it, my hands trembling at my sides.
"No," I said finally, the word bursting out before I could think better of it, before I could calculate the consequences. My fingers twisted in my shawl. "I don't hope that at all."
Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, want, panic, all tangled together—and I watched his hands flex at his sides, watched him struggle with whatever he was feeling. The air between us felt charged, dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost raw. "Elena—"
"I don't want you to be with someone else," I continued, unable to stop now that I'd started, the words tumbling out in a rush. My voice was shaking, but I pressed on, taking a small step closer. "I think Sophie is too calculating, too strategic. You should be with someone who cares about you, not about the Beaumont fortune. Someone who—" I gestured helplessly, my hands moving as if they could shape the words I couldn't quite say. "Someone who sees you, not just your position."
"Stop," he said, but the word came out strained rather than commanding, and I saw his hands clench into fists. "You need to stop talking."
"Why?" I asked, and I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded when my entire body was trembling, when I felt like I might fly apart.
"Because this conversation cannot happen." His voice had gone low, almost desperate, and I watched his chest rise and fall with rapid breaths. "Because there are reasons—good reasons—why this is impossible."
He turned abruptly, creating distance between us, and I felt the loss of his proximity like a physical ache. My hand reached out involuntarily, then dropped back to my side. "I need to help my mother greet the early arrivals. You should go ahead to the garden."
He walked away before I could respond, his stride too quick to be entirely casual, and I stood frozen in the hallway, one hand pressed against my chest where my heart was pounding so hard it hurt. My breath came in short gasps, and I felt tears prick at my eyes even as a strange, fierce joy surged through me.
He hadn't said he wanted to be with Sophie de la Tour. He hadn't encouraged me to support the match. He'd asked if I hoped he'd pursue her—as if my opinion mattered more than his mother's, more than duty, more than what was appropriate.
And when I'd said no, I'd seen it in his eyes: relief mixed with terror, want mixed with guilt.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to steady my breathing. The champagne silk whispered against my legs as I finally forced myself to move toward the courtyard, each step feeling both too heavy and too light.