Chapter 4
Elena
The question had been sitting on my tongue all through dinner, heavy and awkward. I'd rehearsed it at least a dozen times in my head—Chloé asked me to find out... it's for Chloé... I'm just helping a friend—but the justifications felt increasingly flimsy the longer I sat across from Uncle Étienne, watching him twirl his pasta with that precise, economical motion that made even dinner feel choreographed.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to speak. "Can I ask you something?"
Étienne looked up, his dark eyes focusing on me with that intensity that always made me feel like I was the only person in the world. "Of course."
"Have you ever..." I paused, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Have you ever dated anyone? Or are you dating someone now?"
The words tumbled out in a rush, and I immediately wanted to take them back. Something flickered in Étienne's eyes—surprise, maybe, or wariness. He set down his fork carefully. "No. To both questions. I don't have the time or inclination for that."
He doesn't have a girlfriend. Relief washed through me, though I wasn't entirely sure why it mattered so much. Chloé will be thrilled. He's not with anyone. He's never been with anyone—at least not in the five years I've known him.
But even as I processed the information, another feeling followed—that cold, familiar fear that had lived in my bones since childhood, the one with roots in a freezing training hall in Sofia, in my mother's voice saying if you're not good enough, I won't keep you.
"Oh," I said, trying to sound casual. "I was just wondering because... because Isabelle keeps bringing up marriage, and I thought maybe..." The words caught in my throat. "I was wondering if you getting married would mean I'd need to find somewhere else to live."
It came out smaller than I'd intended, more vulnerable, and I hated how it revealed the frightened child underneath all the medals and praise.
Étienne's chair scraped against the floor. Before I could process it, he was crouching beside me, his hands settling on my shoulders with that perfect pressure—firm enough to anchor me, gentle enough not to overwhelm.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and intense. "You are Marc's daughter—his only daughter. This is your home. You belong here, Elena. Do you understand?"
I looked down at my hands, blinking against tears, feeling that familiar spiral starting—the one where I convinced myself everyone would eventually leave, that I was always one mistake away from being abandoned.
"But if you get married—"
"Then my wife would understand that you're family," he said firmly, his fingers tightening slightly. "That you're important to me. That nothing changes that."
Important. The word settled over me like a warm blanket. He wasn't going to abandon me. He wasn't going to send me away. The relief was so intense I could barely breathe.
"Thank you, Uncle Étienne," I whispered, managing a wobbly smile, and I meant it with everything in me. He was the only stable thing in my life, the only person who made me feel safe, and the thought of losing that—losing him—was unbearable.
Because I'd known since I was fifteen that we weren't really related by blood. I'd found the papers in my father's study while sorting through his things after his death. Certificate of Adoption. Elena Petrova. Biological parents: Unknown. Adoptive father: Marc Beaumont.
I'd sat there for hours, trying to process it. Marc wasn't my biological father. He'd chosen me. And that meant Étienne wasn't really my uncle. There was no blood between us at all.
I'd never told anyone. Not my mother, who would have been devastated. Not Étienne, who might have... what? Treated me differently? Pulled away? I'd been too afraid to find out.
So I'd kept it secret, let everyone believe I thought of myself as Marc's biological daughter, as Étienne's blood niece. It had seemed safer that way. It still did.
But sitting here now, feeling the weight of his hands on my shoulders, I wondered if that secret had trapped us both in roles that didn't quite fit anymore.
We finished dinner in silence. When I finally excused myself, I could feel his eyes on me as I left.
I made it to my bedroom and pulled out my phone. Chloé's texts were waiting.
C: So??? Did you ask him??? I'm DYING here
Chloé Dupois—my closest friend at Sciences Po, a French-Canadian from Montreal whose parents had moved back to Paris to teach at the university. She was the only person outside the Beaumont household who knew about my living situation, and she'd been relentlessly curious about my "mysterious hot uncle" ever since she'd met him briefly at a school event last month. She'd been half-joking, half-serious about wanting to pursue him, and I'd agreed to help her gather intel, though the whole thing made me vaguely uncomfortable in a way I couldn't quite explain.
I typed: He's not dating anyone. He's never dated anyone, at least not in the time I've known him.
OMG PERFECT. I'm totally going for it. Your uncle has that whole French intellectual thing going on, plus that mysterious vibe? Chef's kiss emoji
Something twisted in my chest—not quite jealousy, but close. Protectiveness, maybe. Don't. He's not... you couldn't handle him.
LOL protective much? Wait, you're not jealous, are you? Eyes emoji
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Was I? No. That was ridiculous. He was my uncle—well, not really, but close enough. He took care of me. I depended on him. That was all.
But Chloé's teasing made me think about it, made me wonder what it would be like if someone else came into his life, someone who would take up the space and attention that had always been mine.
What if I was? I typed back, half-joking, testing the words.
Long pause. Then: ELENA. Are you saying what I think you're saying???
My heart started to race. This was getting out of hand. I don't know what I'm saying. He's my uncle. It's complicated.
But he's not really your uncle, right? Isn't he like... your dad's brother or something? Not blood related?
I stared at those words, feeling the weight of my five-year secret pressing down on me. Chloé didn't know—couldn't know—that I'd been aware of the truth for years. It doesn't matter. He only sees me as his niece. As Marc's daughter. Nothing more.
Girl. The way you talk about him? The way you LOOK at him? That's not nothing.
Was she right? Did I look at him differently? I thought about the way my pulse quickened when he walked into a room, the way I felt safer when he was near, the way I'd panicked at the thought of him getting married and sending me away. But that wasn't... that was just dependency, wasn't it? Just gratitude for everything he'd done for me?
Even if I liked him... even if I really, really liked him... I wouldn't say anything first. I have pride. Self-respect. Idol baggage, you know?
I typed it as a joke, playing along with Chloé's teasing, but the words felt heavier than I'd intended.
Pause. WAIT. You DO like him! You just admitted it!
Panic surged through me. No! I was joking! I'm just saying hypothetically, IF I did, which I don't, I wouldn't be the one to—you know what, forget it. I have to go. Talk tomorrow.
ELENA DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME HANGING LIKE THIS