Chapter 59
Étienne
The Bentley glided smoothly along the coastal road toward Deauville, the late afternoon sun glinting off the Channel waters that stretched out to our right. In the back seat, Elena had cracked open her window—just slightly, letting in the salt-tinged breeze that carried hints of seaweed and distant fishing boats.
But it wasn't the sea air I noticed most. It was her shampoo—that herbal, faintly sweet fragrance that had become so familiar to me over the months that I could identify it instantly in any room. The breeze carried it through the car, mingling with the maritime scent, and I found myself closing my eyes briefly, allowing myself this one small indulgence, this moment of breathing in a scent that had become impossible to ignore, impossible to resist.
This is the smell I can't refuse, I thought, then immediately castigated myself for the thought. It was pathetic—a grown man reduced to cataloging the scent of his ward's shampoo like some lovesick fool.
When I opened my eyes again, I forced my attention back to the road, back to the reality of what we were and what we could never be.
"Uncle Étienne?" Elena's voice drifted from the back seat, curious and soft. "Is this your first time visiting Aunt Katerina's estate?"
I glanced at her briefly in the rearview mirror before returning my eyes to the road. "No, I came here several years ago when she was renovating the property. She was having a wine cellar installed and insisted I inspect the temperature control system—wanted a second opinion."
I could still remember that visit clearly: Katerina in paint-splattered jeans, gesticulating wildly as she described her vision for transforming the old Norman manor house into something worthy of the social circuit she moved in. She'd dragged me through dusty rooms, pointing out where walls would be knocked down, where the terrace would be extended to overlook the private beach, talking a mile a minute about her plans.
"She talks about you all the time," Elena said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "My aunt, I mean. She's always been so good to me. I've only seen her twice in person, actually—once when I won the regional championship in Sofia. She flew all the way out just to congratulate me, told me I was going to do great things." She paused, and I heard the rustle of her dress as she shifted. "And then again on my eighteenth birthday, when she gave me the Paris apartment. She said every young woman needs a space of her own."
The apartment. That beautiful two-bedroom in the Marais that Katerina had purchased without consulting anyone, then presented to Elena like it was nothing. I remembered the complicated tangle of emotions when I'd heard: pride that she would have somewhere safe and lovely, anxiety about her living alone, and underneath it all, something I refused to examine—a selfish relief when she'd chosen to stay in our house instead of moving there.
The silence stretched between us, comfortable but weighted. I found myself acutely aware of her presence behind me, of the small sounds she made—the quiet intake of breath, the rustle of fabric. It was torture and comfort in equal measure.
"Uncle Étienne?" Her voice was quieter now, more hesitant. "Can I ask you something about my mother?"
My hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. Nadia was always a complicated subject. "Of course."
"Why don't you think I like living with her?" The question came out in a rush, as if she'd been holding it back. "I mean, you've never asked me directly, but I can tell you've noticed. That you understand somehow."
I considered my words carefully, knowing this was delicate territory. "I suppose I've observed that the two of you seem to do better with some distance between you. There's nothing wrong with that—sometimes the people we love most need healthy boundaries to maintain a good relationship."
"Exactly." There was relief in her voice, as if I'd understood something she'd been struggling to articulate. "When I first came to Paris for training, I lived with her—she has an apartment just two blocks from yours, actually. But we were always..." She trailed off, searching for the word. "Tense. Everything I did seemed to disappoint her, or worry her, or both. She'd check my weight every morning, monitor every meal, question every choice."
I said nothing, letting her continue.
"But once I moved to your house, once we had that distance—just two blocks, but it felt like breathing room—suddenly we could talk without fighting. We could have coffee together without it turning into a lecture about my training or my diet or my future. The boundary helped." She paused. "Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense," I said quietly, and even as I spoke, I felt something shift in my mind—a note being made, filed away in that mental ledger I kept of everything about her. She needs boundaries. She needs space. People who love her but give her room to breathe. And then, more pointedly: Don't be like Nadia. Don't crowd her. Don't ask questions you have no right to ask.
It was a reminder I needed, even if it cost me something to acknowledge it.
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Elena
The moment I stepped out of the car, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in golden light—the pale stone walls of the estate, the climbing roses that draped the entrance, the wrought-iron balconies on the second floor that overlooked both manicured gardens and, beyond them, a stretch of private beach where the Channel waves rolled in with rhythmic persistence.
My deep blue velvet dress swished softly against my legs as I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The dress had been a splurge—more than I should have spent—but seeing it now against this backdrop, with the sea breeze tugging at the hem and the maritime light making the velvet shimmer, I felt like I'd made the right choice. The rich color seemed to belong here, in this world of old stone and careful elegance.
My phone buzzed in my clutch, and I pulled it out to see a message from Maxime: Baby, you look beautiful today.
A smile tugged at my lips. I looked up toward the house and found him almost immediately—leaning against the railing of a second-floor balcony, wine glass in hand, watching me with that easy grin that always made my stomach flutter. When he saw me looking, he raised his glass in a silent toast, his smile widening.
My first instinct was to blow him a kiss, to acknowledge him the way he was acknowledging me—openly, playfully, with the casual affection that new couples showed each other. I even started to lift my hand.
But then I felt Uncle Étienne step up beside me, his presence somehow taking up more space than his physical form should allow, and my hand faltered. I couldn't do it—couldn't be that openly affectionate with Maxime while my uncle was standing right there, watching. It felt wrong somehow, inappropriate in a way I couldn't articulate.
So I settled for a small wave instead, quick and restrained, and tried to ignore the way Maxime's smile dimmed slightly at my tepid response.
Why do I care what Uncle Étienne thinks? I wondered, frustrated with myself. Maxime is my boyfriend. I should be able to blow him kisses if I want to.
But I couldn't. Not with my uncle standing there.
"Elena." Uncle Étienne's voice was low, meant only for my ears. "Before we go in, there's something you should know. When you arrive at an event like this, the first thing you do is find the hosts—your aunt and uncle—and pay your respects. You greet them, thank them for the invitation, and only then are you free to do as you please. It's not just politeness—it's protocol."
I looked up at him, noting the serious set of his jaw, the way he was watching me with that careful attention that made me feel simultaneously protected and observed. "So many rules," I murmured, unable to keep the complaint out of my voice.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Some rules are necessary. They provide structure, help you navigate situations you're unfamiliar with."
"I suppose." I glanced back up at the balcony, where Maxime was still watching us. "It just feels like there are rules for everything in this world."
"There are," Uncle Étienne said simply. "But knowing them means you can choose when to follow them and when to break them. Ignorance removes that choice."
I considered that as we started up the stone steps toward the entrance. He had a point, even if I didn't particularly like it.