Chapter 56
Elena
The drive to Annabelle's place was quieter, the earlier easy atmosphere somewhat deflated. When we pulled up to her building, she gave me a quick hug before getting out.
"Thanks for dinner," she said to Maxime. "It was really nice meeting you."
"You too," Maxime said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
After she left, silence filled the car. Maxime pulled back into traffic, heading toward my neighborhood.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I shouldn't have said those things in front of your friend."
"It's okay," I said, though it wasn't, not really.
"It's not okay. I just..." He sighed. "I told my mother about us. Weeks ago. She's fine with it—excited, even. She remembers you from when you were younger. And it feels ridiculous that I can't even pick you up at your actual house."
My stomach dropped. "You told her? Maxime, I asked you not to say anything yet."
"She's my mother," he said, as if that explained everything. "Besides, what's the big deal? We're not doing anything wrong. You're twenty years old, Elena. You don't need anyone's permission to date someone."
He was right. Logically, he was absolutely right. But the thought of formally announcing our relationship to Uncle Étienne made my chest tighten in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
"It's not about permission," I said carefully. "It's about... timing. And family dynamics. Your mother and his mother don't get along, and I don't want to make things more complicated."
"Or maybe," Maxime said, his jaw tightening slightly, "you're worried about what your uncle will think. That's what this is really about, isn't it?"
The accusation hit too close to home. "It's not like that."
"Isn't it?" He pulled over at the usual corner, several blocks from the house. "Elena, I like you. A lot. But I'm not going to keep being your secret boyfriend because you're afraid of disappointing your guardian."
"You're not a secret," I insisted, even though we both knew that wasn't entirely true. "I just... I need time. Please. Can we just take things slowly?"
Maxime was quiet for a long moment, and I could see him wrestling with frustration. Finally, he sighed. "Okay. Slowly. But at some point, you're going to have to decide if you actually want this or if you're just going along with it because it's easier than saying no."
The words stung because they echoed a fear I'd been trying not to examine. Did I want this? I liked Maxime—really liked him. He was handsome and funny and kind, everything I should want in a boyfriend. The fact that sometimes, in quiet moments, my mind drifted to someone else—that was just a silly crush, a confused response to kindness from an older man who'd been good to me. It didn't mean anything.
"I do want this," I said, and I meant it. Or at least, I wanted to mean it. "I'm just... I'm not good at this. At relationships. At balancing everything."
Maxime's expression softened. "I know. And I'm trying to be patient. I just don't want to feel like I'm competing with your whole life for a place in it."
"You're not," I promised, squeezing his hand. "You're not competing with anyone."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I swallowed it down. Because it was a lie, wasn't it?
"Can I kiss you?" Maxime asked softly. "Before you go?"
My heart started pounding. We'd kissed before, but always quick pecks, nothing serious. The way he was looking at me now suggested he wanted something more.
"Just on the cheek," I said quickly. "I'm not... I'm not ready for more than that yet."
I saw disappointment flicker across his face, but he nodded. "Okay. On the cheek."
I leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then pulled back before he could turn it into something more. "I'll text you when I get inside."
"Elena—"
"I should go," I said, already reaching for the door handle. "Thank you for dinner. It was really nice."
I grabbed my training bag and got out of the car before he could protest further. As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me, could sense his frustration even from a distance.
My face felt hot, my chest tight with guilt and confusion. I liked Maxime. I did. He was sweet and attentive and everything I should want. The fact that my mind kept drifting to Uncle Étienne—that was just because I lived in his house, because he'd been so kind to me, because I was confused about the difference between gratitude and... whatever this was.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything.
By the time I reached the house, my headache had returned with a vengeance. I let myself in quietly, hoping I could slip upstairs without encountering anyone. The entrance hall was dark, most of the family apparently already retired for the evening.
But as I passed the library, I saw light spilling from the partially open door. Through the gap, I caught a glimpse of Uncle Étienne in one of the leather armchairs, a book open in his lap and a glass of whisky on the side table.
My heart did something complicated in my chest—a flutter that felt different from what I'd felt with Maxime. Deeper. More confusing. More dangerous.
I should have kept walking. Should have gone upstairs, taken a shower, gone to bed. But my feet carried me toward the door before my brain could intervene, drawn by something I didn't want to name.
"Uncle Étienne?"