Chapter 44
Elena
The conversation resumed, but I felt increasingly disconnected, like I was watching a play from behind thick glass. Emma kept asking questions—about my training, my coaches, my favorite competitions, growing up in Bulgaria, whether I missed home—and I answered as best I could, but each response felt like it required more energy than I had to give.
"Do you have a favorite apparatus?" Emma asked, leaning forward.
"I prefer the hoop," I said. "The ribbon is lovely, but the hoop has more technical requirements. It's more challenging."
"That's so you," Maxime said with a laugh, his arm sliding around my shoulders. "Always picking the hardest option."
"It's not about picking the hardest option," I corrected, more sharply than I'd intended. "It's about choosing what showcases your strengths."
"See?" Maxime addressed the table at large. "This is what I love about her. She's so focused, so driven. Everything has a purpose with Elena."
The words should have been a compliment, but they felt like a reduction, as if he'd taken the complexity of who I was and distilled it down to a single trait—the driven athlete girlfriend who made for good conversation at dinner parties.
My special meal arrived—a dry chicken breast, steamed vegetables already going cold, mushy quinoa. I picked at it mechanically while everyone else enjoyed their perfectly prepared entrees.
"How's your ankle?" Maxime asked quietly. "You were limping a bit when we left the gym."
"It's fine," I said automatically, even though it was throbbing steadily. "Just a minor roll. Nothing serious."
"You should ice it when you get home," he said, and I nodded even though I knew Uncle Étienne would have already prepared an ice bath and scheduled a massage therapist and adjusted tomorrow's training program—all without me having to ask.
The thought of Uncle Étienne sent a pang through my chest. He'd been so cold this morning, so distant, and I still didn't understand what I'd done wrong. The memory of his face in the garden—that moment of vulnerability before Maxime interrupted—felt like something I'd imagined.
"Earth to Elena," Emma's voice cut through my thoughts. "Sorry, did you zone out on us?"
"No, I'm sorry, I just—what did you say?"
"I was asking about your Instagram. You posted that photo yesterday—the one in the training gym? That was so inspiring."
I tried to remember what I'd posted yesterday, but the days were blurring together.
"Can I ask you something?" Emma leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow still carried. "Is it true that you live with the Beaumont family? Like, in their actual house?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, ripples of interest spreading across the faces around the table. Even Maxime straightened beside me.
"Yes," I said simply. "My guardian is part of the family. They've been very generous in letting me stay with them while I train and attend university."
"Your guardian," Thomas repeated, making the word sound somehow salacious. "That's Étienne Beaumont, right? The one who runs the whole empire?"
"He manages the family's business interests, yes." I kept my voice carefully neutral.
"God, what's that like?" Sophie asked, her eyes wide. "Living in one of those massive houses in the eighth arrondissement, having access to all that money and influence? It must be incredible."
"It's... very comfortable. I'm grateful for the support they've provided."
"Comfortable," Thomas laughed. "That's one way to put it. I'd call it winning the lottery. Do you have any idea what people would give to have that kind of backing?"
Yes, I wanted to say. I know exactly what people would give, because I've given it—my privacy, my independence, the simple freedom to make mistakes without wondering if I'm disappointing someone who's invested so much in me.
"Elena works incredibly hard," Maxime said, his voice taking on a defensive edge. "Whatever support she gets, she's earned it. You guys should see her train—it's brutal."
"I'm not saying she doesn't work hard," Thomas backtracked. "I'm just saying it's a pretty sweet setup. Most athletes have to worry about funding and sponsorships. Elena doesn't have those problems."
The implication was clear—that my success was bought rather than earned, that the advantages I'd been given somehow diminished the work I put in every day. It was the same sentiment Annabelle had expressed that morning, dressed up in friendlier language.
"I think we should probably change the subject," Maxime said, his tone light but with steel underneath. "This is supposed to be a fun dinner."
But the damage was done. I could feel the weight of their judgment, could see it in the way they looked at me now—not with Emma's enthusiasm but with calculating assessment, wondering what I'd done to deserve the life they imagined I had.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced conversation and mechanical eating. By the time dessert arrived—pastries I couldn't eat and didn't want—my throat felt tight and raw, my voice hoarse, my head beginning to pound with the familiar pressure that signaled I'd pushed myself too far.
"You okay?" Maxime asked quietly. "You seem tired."
"My throat hurts a bit," I admitted.
"Really? You sound fine to me." He pulled back to look at me, puzzled. "You're not losing your voice or anything."
"It's just a little sore."
"You're so much like Rémi," Maxime laughed. "He's always complaining that his throat hurts after talking for more than ten minutes. I keep telling him he should see a doctor, but he insists it's just how he is."
The comparison stung. Rémi's sensitivity to prolonged conversation was something Maxime dismissed as a quirk, maybe even a weakness—not something to be accommodated but something to be overcome, fixed, normalized. Was that how he saw me too?
The drive back felt longer than it should have. Maxime kept up a steady stream of conversation about his friends and how much they'd enjoyed meeting me, how Emma had already sent him messages about how amazing I was.
I made appropriate sounds of acknowledgment, but my mind was elsewhere, already calculating how long until I got home, whether Uncle Étienne would still be awake.
"So," Maxime said as we pulled up to the gates, "I was thinking we could do something tomorrow. Maybe grab lunch after your morning training?"
"I can't," I said immediately. "I have training all day, and I need to focus. Today was... it was a lot."
"Today was fun," he corrected, with an edge of confusion. "Everyone loved you. Don't you want to do more things like this? Get out of the gym, meet people, actually live a little?"