Chapter 35
Étienne
"But she—" Elena stopped, swallowed hard. "After Dad died, she kept saying 'you're all my hope now.' She put all her unfulfilled dreams on me. I couldn't let her down. Not when I'm all she has."
"So she made her grief your burden. Took her own trauma and unmet needs and dumped them on a grieving child's shoulders. That's not love, Elena. That's exploitation."
"She does love me," Elena protested, but I heard the uncertainty underneath. "She just has high standards. She wants me to reach my potential."
"Does she love you?" I asked. "Or does she love what you can achieve? Does she love Elena the person, or Elena the athlete who might finally accomplish what she couldn't?"
Her voice had gone very small.
"Sometimes I think," she whispered, "she doesn't love me. She loves the medals I can win."
The admission hung between us, and I felt something in my chest break at the resignation in her tone. She'd known this truth for years, had been living with the knowledge that her mother's regard was conditional on performance.
I looked at her standing there, this young woman who'd been systematically taught that her value lay entirely in her physical capabilities, that love was something to be earned through achievement rather than given freely. And I wanted to see past all of it—past the careful persona, past the wall of accomplishment she'd built to justify her existence.
I wanted to see the girl underneath. The one who was frightened and exhausted and desperate to be recognized as something more than a collection of skills. The one who needed someone to look at her and see value that had nothing to do with difficulty scores or execution quality. The one who'd been waiting her entire life for someone to love her without conditions.
The wind picked up. I saw Elena shiver, shoulders curling forward. My hand moved toward my jacket before conscious thought could intervene, driven by the impulse to offer warmth.
I caught myself halfway. Giving her my jacket would require closing the distance, would involve the kind of proximity that felt dangerous when we were both emotionally exposed. The gesture would be too loaded, too revealing.
So I remained where I was, hands gripping the railing hard enough that the metal edge cut into my palms, using physical discomfort to anchor myself against the tide of protective instinct.
Elena turned to face me fully, and something in her expression had shifted—the wariness had softened into something more vulnerable. She looked at me with an intensity that made me feel seen in a way I hadn't experienced in years. There was a quality to her gaze that reminded me uncomfortably of devotion, of someone preparing to entrust themselves completely to another person's care.
"Does it bore you?" she asked quietly. "When I talk about gymnastics?"
The question revealed so much—her fear that she was imposing, that her concerns were trivial, that the care I'd shown was obligation rather than genuine interest.
I should have deflected with something appropriately distant. Instead, I found myself silent for three full seconds, caught between the response I should give and the truth I couldn't quite suppress.
"No," I said finally.
Two more seconds of silence, during which I could feel my defenses crumbling.
"I like it," I added, and immediately recognized the mistake. Those two words revealed far too much about how thoroughly she'd infiltrated my attention, how much I'd come to value these moments.
The admission hung between us. My resolve was just that weak, I thought bitterly. My discipline just that fragile.
Her eyes lit up with an intensity that made my chest tighten.
"Then I'll tell you more next time!" The enthusiasm in her voice, the assumption of future conversations—all of it highlighted how thoroughly I'd failed to maintain appropriate boundaries.
"You should get some rest," I said, forcing my voice back into something approximating guardian-appropriate concern. "Early training tomorrow."
But even as I said it, I could hear the gentleness that had crept into my tone despite my best efforts, could recognize that the warmth in my voice undermined whatever boundaries I was trying to establish.
She smiled at me, that particular expression that made her look younger than twenty, more vulnerable and open than she typically allowed. Then she nodded, accepting the dismissal even as I could see the reluctance in the way she lingered.
"Good night, Uncle," she said softly.
"Good night, Elena," I replied, and watched as she turned and walked toward her door. She paused, looked back at me one more time with an expression I couldn't quite read, then disappeared inside.
Her light stayed on for several minutes. I remained frozen, hands still gripping the railing, watching the illuminated rectangle of her window. Finally, her light went dark, and I was left alone with the weight of what had just happened, with the recognition that two weeks of deliberate avoidance had accomplished nothing except making me more acutely aware of how much I'd missed her presence.
I returned to my study, body moving through familiar space with automatic precision while my mind remained trapped replaying our conversation, every moment where I'd revealed too much.
I stood at my desk, staring at the acquisition documents I should have been reviewing. The financial projections and legal terminology suddenly felt completely meaningless.
The more I tried to suppress it, the higher it rose. Two weeks of deliberate avoidance had accomplished nothing except making me more acutely aware of how thoroughly she'd undermined my attempts at emotional control.
My rational mind had completely failed to govern my emotional responses where she was concerned. The discipline I'd cultivated over years, the ability to distinguish between desire and duty—all of it had proven utterly ineffective against the pull she exerted.
I thought about the metaphor that had been haunting me—when the tide finally receded and the truth was fully exposed, what would that face look like? Would it be the face of someone who'd finally acknowledged that he'd fallen in love with his ward? Or would it be the face of someone who'd managed to maintain his self-deception?