Chapter 27
Étienne
I found myself at the edge of the bamboo grove without quite remembering how I'd gotten there, my feet having carried me through the garden on autopilot while my mind spun through increasingly desperate justifications for what I was doing. I'd told myself I was looking for Elena to inform her we'd be leaving soon—perfectly reasonable, the kind of thing a responsible guardian would do. But the truth sat heavy in my chest: I'd come looking for her because I couldn't stand not knowing where she was, couldn't bear the thought of her somewhere in this garden with him.
The evening had turned cool, autumn asserting itself in the breeze that rustled through the bamboo stalks. Voices drifted through the grove, and I froze. Elena's voice, soft with something that sounded like wonder. And another voice—Chloé's, warmly encouraging.
I should leave. Should turn around before I heard something I couldn't unhear. But my feet wouldn't move.
"I really like being with him," Elena said, her words carrying through the bamboo with devastating clarity. "He makes me feel like I'm worth something just for being me. Not because of what I can do or what I'm supposed to be, just... me."
The words drove the air from my lungs. The cool evening air suddenly felt like it was full of sparks, each breath searing my lungs, burning across my face until my skin felt tight despite the autumn chill. The ground beneath my feet seemed to shift, dead leaves transforming into something treacherous, as if trying to pull me under.
"Oh my God, you're totally glowing," Chloé said with a laugh. "You are so gone for him."
"I guess I am. I've been thinking about him all evening, even when I was supposed to be paying attention at dinner."
"That's exactly how it should be when you're falling for someone."
Falling for someone. The words ricocheted through my mind. She was falling for him. For Maxime, with his easy smile and uncomplicated affection, his ability to see only Elena rather than a tangle of duty and guilt and impossible want.
Footsteps approached through the bamboo—heavier, masculine. Maxime's voice, warm with that uncomplicated joy that made my chest feel like it was being crushed in a vise.
"There you are," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
"Max!" Elena's voice brightened, that note of pure happiness that I'd once foolishly thought was reserved for moments with me. "I was just talking with Chloé."
"I hope I'm not interrupting." A pause, filled with rustling bamboo and the distant sound of the party. "Elena, I need to tell you something. I told my mother tonight. Officially. That we're together and I'm serious about you."
Of course he had. Of course he'd done everything right, everything I couldn't do—claimed her openly, proudly, without shame or guilt or the weight of duty crushing down on every interaction. My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms.
"You did?" Elena's voice was soft, wondering. "What did she say?"
"About what you'd expect—the whole speech about appropriate matches and family expectations. But I told her I don't care about any of that. You're the one I want, and I'm not going to let anyone tell me otherwise."
You're the one I want. The words echoed in my skull, each syllable a hammer blow. He could say that. He was allowed to say that, allowed to want her without it being a grotesque abuse of power.
"Max..." Elena's voice trembled with emotion I couldn't quite name.
"I know we've only been together a week, but honestly, it's like we can't stand to be apart for five minutes." Maxime laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "I know it probably sounds crazy, but I've never felt this way about anyone before."
This was good, I told myself desperately. This was exactly what I wanted—Elena happy, Elena cared for. This was good.
So why did it feel like someone had reached into my chest and crushed my heart?
I had to move. Had to get out before someone found me lurking like some pathetic stalker. My feet finally obeyed, carrying me back toward the terrace with mechanical steps. Each one sent pain through my injured leg, but I welcomed it—physical pain was manageable.
Not like this other thing that clawed at my chest and made it hard to breathe.
By the time I reached the terrace my control had reassembled itself into something that might pass for normalcy. I moved through the crowd on autopilot, grabbed a glass of whiskey, drained it in one burning swallow.
"You look like hell." Rémi materialized at my elbow. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Nothing happened."
Rémi's eyes narrowed, scanning my face. "That's interesting, because you're standing here looking like you just watched someone die."
"I'm fine," I bit out, already reaching for another drink.
"Étienne—"
"I said I'm fine." The words came out cold enough that Rémi actually stepped back. Good. Maybe he'd leave me alone.
But Rémi had never been good at taking hints. He studied me, and I could see him putting pieces together. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral.
"This wouldn't have anything to do with Elena and Maxime, would it?"
My spine went rigid. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. So you just happened to disappear when they went off together, and you just happened to come back looking gut-punched, and those are completely unrelated."
I grabbed another glass. "They're dating. It's natural for young people to want time alone."
"Natural." The word dripped with skepticism. "Étienne, we've known each other for fifteen years. You can't bullshit me. Not about this."
"There's nothing to talk about. Elena is happy. That's what matters."
"Jesus Christ," Rémi muttered. "You're really going to stand here and pretend you don't—"
"Don't." The word came out harsh, desperate. "Don't say it. Don't make it real."
Because that was the thing. As long as I didn't acknowledge it, I could pretend it was manageable. Misplaced protectiveness, nothing more.
But if Rémi said it out loud—if he named this thing I'd been fighting—then I'd have to face it. I'd have to admit that somewhere along the way I'd crossed a line I could never uncross.
"Étienne," Rémi said softly. "Ignoring it won't make it go away."
"I'm not ignoring anything. I'm being realistic about what's possible and what isn't."
"And what's possible?"
"Elena being happy. Elena being with someone appropriate, someone who can give her what she deserves without—" I had to stop, force down the words. "She's with Maxime. She's falling for him. That's the end of it."
Rémi was quiet for a long moment. Finally he sighed. "If you say so."
"I do say so." I drained my drink. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have guests to attend to."
I walked away before he could respond. My leg was screaming, each step sending jolts of pain through my hip, but I welcomed it. Pain was good. Pain meant I was still in control.
The party swirled around me and I moved through it on autopilot, saying the right things, maintaining the facade. Somewhere out there Elena was with Maxime. Laughing. Being surprised. Building something uncomplicated and good.
And I was here, drowning in whiskey and duty and the certainty that I'd just lost something I'd never had any right to want.
This is good, I told myself. This is what you wanted. She's happy.
I almost believed it.