Chapter 52
Elena
"Uncle Étienne," I said softly as we drove through the eighth arrondissement, breaking the comfortable silence. Puff dozed in her carrier on my lap. "Can I ask you something?"
His eyes stayed on the road, but his jaw tightened slightly. "Of course."
"At work... do you ever get into arguments? Real ones, where you lose your temper?"
He considered this. "Occasionally. Usually when someone's incompetence threatens a project or puts others at risk. But I try to maintain composure."
"Do you ever say things you regret?"
Now he glanced at me, curious. "Sometimes. Why?"
I turned to the window, watching streetlights blur past. "My teammate, Annabelle—she hasn't spoken to me in over a week. And when she does, it's to say cruel things. About my technique, my place on the team, my..." I paused. "My family connections."
"Ah." His tone shifted, more careful. "What did she say specifically?"
"That I only made the team because of your money. That I'm a charity case playing at being an athlete." My hands curled into fists. "She said it in front of everyone. In front of Maxime."
The car's interior suddenly felt very small. I sensed his grip on the wheel tighten, his entire posture going rigid.
"And what did you say in response?" His voice was dangerously quiet.
"Nothing. I just... froze. I wanted to defend myself, but I couldn't find the words. I felt so stupid—"
"You're not stupid." The words were sharp, cutting through my self-recrimination. "Elena, look at me."
I turned. He was watching me intently, eyes reflecting the passing streetlights. "You're not stupid, and you're not a charity case. You've earned every opportunity through your own talent and dedication. Anyone who suggests otherwise is either blind or deliberately malicious."
"But it's true, isn't it? That I have advantages others don't? That you've made things easier?"
"I've provided resources," he said evenly. "The same resources any athlete with wealthy family would access. What you've done with those resources—the hours, the discipline, the sacrifices—that's entirely yours. No one can buy the kind of commitment you've shown."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But Annabelle's words had burrowed under my skin, feeding every insecurity I'd ever had.
"Should I talk to her? Try to fix it?"
"Do you want to fix it?"
I thought about that. Annabelle and I had been friendly once—the casual way of teammates who trained together but weren't particularly close. We'd shared meals, complained about Michel's critiques, celebrated successes. But I'd never felt she truly understood me.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Part of me wants to clear the air. But another part..."
"Another part recognizes that some people will never accept you, no matter what you do or say," he finished quietly. "And trying to win their approval is wasted energy better spent on people who already see your worth."
Something in his tone struck me. "Is that what you do? Focus on people who matter and ignore everyone else?"
"More or less." He signaled to change lanes, movements smooth. "In my position, I deal with plenty of people who question my decisions, my competence, my right to lead. If I spent time convincing every skeptic, I'd never accomplish anything."
"But doesn't it bother you? Knowing people think those things?"
"Sometimes." He paused, choosing words carefully. "But I've learned you can't control what others think or say. Only your own actions and reactions. If you want to talk to Annabelle, do it because you believe it will help you, not because you think you can change her mind."
I turned the advice over in my mind. It made sense in theory, but execution felt daunting. "What would you say? If you were me?"
"I'd probably say nothing. Let my performance speak for itself." He glanced at me briefly. "But you're not me, Elena. You're allowed to handle conflicts differently. If talking to her would give you peace of mind, talk to her. Just don't expect her to suddenly become a friend. Some people are incapable of seeing past their own jealousy or insecurity."
"Jealousy?" I frowned. "Why would she be jealous of me?"
The look he gave me was almost pitying. "Elena. You're twenty years old, competing at an elite level, living in Paris with access to resources most athletes only dream of. You're beautiful, talented, with your whole future ahead. Why wouldn't she be jealous?"
The casual way he called me beautiful made my pulse spike, but I forced myself to focus. "I never thought of it that way. I always assumed people saw me as... less than. Like I didn't deserve what I had."
"That's your mother's voice in your head," he said quietly. "Not reality."
The observation landed like a physical blow. He was right. So much of my internal dialogue echoed Nadia's harsh critiques, her constant emphasis on perfection and unworthiness. I'd internalized her standards so thoroughly I couldn't separate my own thoughts from her voice anymore.
We pulled into the underground garage. My uncle parked and came around to help with Puff's carrier, his hand finding its habitual place at the small of my back as we walked toward the elevator.
"Thank you," I said softly. "For the advice. And for listening."
"Always," he replied, and something in his tone made me look up.
Our eyes met in the dim lighting. For a moment, the air felt charged with unspoken things. I wanted to ask about this afternoon, about the way he'd touched me, about the look in his eyes that made my heart race. But the words stuck, too dangerous to voice.
The elevator doors opened, breaking the moment. We stepped inside. I watched the numbers climb, acutely aware of my uncle's presence—the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne, the controlled stillness that always surrounded him.
When we reached the main floor and the doors opened, I hesitated. "Uncle Étienne?"
"Yes?"
"Earlier, when you said I deserve someone who understands my needs without explanation... did you mean that?"
I felt his entire body tense. "Of course I meant it."
"Then why—" I stopped, suddenly uncertain. Why what? Why did he pull away every time we got close? Why did he look at me like I was something precious and dangerous? Why did I feel like we were constantly dancing around something neither of us could name?