Chapter 62
Étienne
I stood near the terrace balustrade, a glass of Macallan in hand that I hadn't actually tasted, my attention ostensibly on Rémi's discussion about quarterly projections but my focus—as it had been all evening—on the slender figure in ivory silk moving through the crowd below.
Elena had drifted toward the far corner of the garden, away from the main clusters of guests, and I watched as a man I vaguely recognized approached her with the confident stride of someone used to women finding him charming. He was perhaps thirty-five, wearing an expensive suit that was slightly too tight, and when he offered Elena a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, his smile carried practiced warmth.
Elena shook her head, gesturing to her own untouched glass, and even from this distance I could read the polite tension in her shoulders, the way she'd angled her body slightly away while maintaining the appearance of engagement. She was explaining something—from the earnest movement of her hands, I knew without hearing that she was telling him about alcohol metabolism and muscle function, about how even a single glass could affect her energy systems.
The man laughed, said something else, and shifted closer. Every protective instinct I'd spent five years cultivating snapped to attention.
"You're doing that thing again," Rémi observed quietly. "Where you look like you're calculating the most efficient way to remove someone's limbs without causing a scene."
I took a measured sip of whiskey, keeping my expression neutral. "I have no idea what you mean."
"Of course you don't." He followed my gaze. "That's Dubois's cousin, isn't it? The one trying to expand into luxury goods?"
"Laurent Mercier. His father owns a shipping company currently under investigation for customs violations. The son fancies himself a playboy." But I was already moving, setting my glass down with more force than necessary and descending into the garden.
"—just saying you're far too beautiful to spend the evening alone," Mercier was saying as I approached, his hand extended toward Elena's arm. "Surely someone as lovely as you—"
"Monsieur Beaumont." Elena's voice carried unmistakable relief when she saw me, her amber eyes meeting mine with something that looked dangerously like hope.
Mercier turned, his expression shifting through surprise and calculation before settling on careful deference. "Étienne. I was just introducing myself to Mademoiselle Petrova—"
"I heard." I positioned myself slightly between them, the barrier subtle but unmistakable. "Though I'm curious why you felt the need to corner my ward at a private family gathering when you were invited purely as a courtesy to your father's business relationship. A relationship that, as I mentioned, is currently under scrutiny."
His smile flickered. "I wasn't cornering anyone—"
"Were you?" I let the question hang. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were ignoring very clear signals that your attention was unwanted. Mademoiselle Petrova is twenty years old, Mercier. She's an elite athlete with more discipline in her little finger than you've demonstrated in your entire life. And she's under my protection."
The last words came out harder than I'd intended, carrying a possessiveness that had nothing to do with guardian responsibility. Beside me, I felt Elena's surprise.
"I should—" Mercier gestured vaguely toward the house. "My apologies—"
"None taken. Though perhaps in future, you might consider that young women at parties are not opportunities for networking."
He left quickly, and I heard Rémi's quiet snort behind me. "Subtle as always."
I turned to Elena, who was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Her cheeks were flushed, her fingers tight around her champagne glass.
"You made his face turn red," she said softly. "You put him in his place... I think you scared him."
"Good." The word came out more vehement than I'd intended. "Men like that prey on politeness. You shouldn't have to deal with that."
"I can handle unwanted attention," Elena said, but there was uncertainty beneath the assertion.
"He was being predatory." The correction was automatic. "There's a difference, Elena. You need to learn to recognize it."
Before she could respond, a child's voice called out from near the pool. "Elena! Elena, come see! Come see what we got!"
We both turned to see several children gathered around skateboards and scooters, the oldest boy waving enthusiastically.
"I should—" Elena gestured toward them, but I saw the hesitation in her posture. "They want to show me something."
Rémi had drifted closer. Elena glanced at him, then back at me, swallowing before speaking.
"I haven't really spent much time taking care of children," she admitted quietly. "I'm worried I might not... I don't know how to be good with them. What if I do something wrong?"
The fear in her voice—that constant anxiety that she might fail—made my chest tighten. "You don't have to go if you don't want to. I can make an excuse—"
"No." She straightened her shoulders, summoning that determination I'd watched her develop over years. "No, they'd be disappointed. They're excited. I can do this."
She walked toward the children, and I found myself unable to look away.
"You're staring," Rémi observed quietly.
"I'm observing."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He took a sip of whiskey, watching Elena kneel beside the children. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like a man who's completely gone on someone he's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't want."
I didn't respond, watching as Elena listened with genuine interest while the children explained their skateboards.
"You're playing dad to her everywhere," Rémi continued. "Scaring off men who approach her, monitoring her relationships, dictating her schedule. The only reason you went after Mercier wasn't because he was inappropriate—though he was—it was because he was talking to her. And you couldn't stand it."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" He turned to face me fully. "Étienne, I've known you since we were eighteen. I've watched you build an empire, navigate family politics that would make Machiavelli weep, maintain perfect control. But when it comes to her? You're not half as controlled as you think."
Before I could respond, he asked the question I'd been avoiding.
"The possessiveness has gotten this strong, and you've never once suspected that this is love?"
The word landed like a stone. My jaw tightened involuntarily, my right eyelid twitching—a tell I hadn't experienced since my racing days.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Point out what everyone can see?" Rémi's voice remained gentle but steel lay beneath. "I'm not judging you. But you can't keep lying to yourself about what this is."
I forced myself to look away from Elena, focusing on the distant treeline. "She's twenty. I'm her guardian. Her uncle in every way that matters except blood. Whatever I feel—" I couldn't finish.
"Except that's not all you feel, is it?" Rémi's question was quiet but relentless. "You don't look at her like a guardian. You look at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters. Like if she disappeared tomorrow, you'd tear down mountains to find her."
The truth settled into my bones with the weight of inevitability.
I watched Elena help a small boy adjust his helmet, her movements careful and precise, and felt something crack open in my chest. The pure softness in her expression, the gentle patience—it was devastating.
This was what she could be without the pressure, without the brutal training, without her mother's voice telling her she wasn't enough. This was the Elena beneath all the armor, and I'd spent five years catching glimpses of her in quiet moments.
"I've gotten used to being her elder," I said quietly. "I've spent so long in that role—guardian, protector, the one who makes decisions and sets boundaries. Any thought beyond that feels..." I paused. "Scandalous. Impossible. Wrong."
"Does it feel wrong?" Rémi asked. "Or does it feel terrifying because it's the first time in your adult life you've wanted something you're not supposed to have?"
I couldn't answer. Instead, I watched as Elena stood up, brushing grass from her dress, and one of the children grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the pool. She went willingly, laughing, and the sound carried across the garden.
"They all think highly of you," Rémi said. "Your friends. We've been watching this dance for months. The consensus is unanimous—you should stop torturing yourself and just admit what you want."
"And what do I want?"
"Her." The answer was simple, direct, devastating. "You want her. Not as a ward, not as a responsibility. You want her the way a man wants a woman—completely, possessively, in ways that have nothing to do with duty."
The words hung between us, impossible to take back. I felt my pulse spike, felt the familiar tightness in my chest.