Chapter 67
Elena
The hot water had done nothing. I stood in my bathroom, staring at my reflection through the steam—hair damp, wearing the silk robe Étienne had given me last Christmas because "proper sleepwear is part of maintaining discipline." Even wrapped in fabric he'd chosen, I couldn't escape him.
My fingers traced the embroidered initials on the lapel—E.P.—and I wondered if he'd thought of me when he ordered it, if he'd imagined how the champagne silk would look against my skin. Stop it, I told myself. Stop turning everything into evidence of something that doesn't exist.
But my feet carried me down the hallway anyway, drawn by the light beneath his study door. I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated, suddenly aware of how I must look—barefoot, hair loose, wearing only this robe that suddenly felt too thin.
"Uncle?" The word came out softer than I'd intended, almost a whisper.
Silence.
I tried again, knuckles against wood, my heartbeat loud in my ears. "Étienne?"
Nothing. Just the heavy quiet of the house at night.
Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he'd gone to bed early, exhausted from the evening. Maybe he was sitting in there right now, staring at the door, willing me to leave so he wouldn't have to face whatever this was becoming between us.
I pressed my palm flat against the door, as if I could feel him through the wood. Was he there now, frozen in his chair, listening to me call his name? Did his fingers tighten around that crystal glass the way they'd tightened on my shoulder during dinner?
I waited, counting my own heartbeats—ten, twenty, thirty—each one a small death of hope.
"Good night, Uncle," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper, defeated by the silence that felt less like absence and more like deliberate refusal. "Thank you for today. For everything tonight. The menu, and—"
I stopped, the words catching in my throat because what could I say that wouldn't reveal too much? Thank you for the way you touched my shoulder? Thank you for making me feel like I was the only person in that entire ballroom?
The silence stretched, absolute and damning, and I finally forced myself to walk away. Each step felt heavier than the last, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving something important behind in that hallway—some chance that wouldn't come again, some question that would never be answered.
---
Back in my room, I slid down against the door until I was sitting on the floor, knees drawn to my chest. The silk robe pooled around me, and I buried my face in my hands, trying to understand what was wrong with me.
The evening with Maxime played through my mind like a film I was watching from outside my body.
His silver convertible had been gleaming when I'd come downstairs, top already down despite the cool evening. "Come on, Elena! Live a little!" he'd called out, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching for me.
I'd climbed in because that's what girlfriends did. They went on spontaneous adventures. They didn't stand there thinking about the man watching from the upstairs window—because I'd felt him there, felt his gaze like a physical weight even though I hadn't dared to look up.
The music had started the moment we hit the main road—some pulsing electronic track that made my teeth hurt. Maxime's hand had found my knee, warm and proprietary. I'd forced myself not to flinch, not to pull away, because this is normal, I'd told myself. This is what twenty-year-olds do.
"You're going to love this, Elena!" he'd shouted over the music, accelerating onto the coastal highway. "There's this spot by the cliffs—the stars are incredible!"
But all I could think about was the way Étienne's hand had felt on my bare shoulder during dinner, the precise pressure of his fingers, the way my body had known exactly how to lean into his touch. Maxime's grip felt wrong by comparison—too hot, too insistent, demanding a response I didn't know how to give.
The wind had whipped my hair across my face. The music had grown louder as Maxime reached for the volume, singing along off-key. I'd wanted to ask him to slow down, to turn it down, to just stop. But my throat had closed up, and all I could do was grip the door handle and try to remember how to breathe.
This was supposed to be fun. This was supposed to be freedom. So why did I feel like I was suffocating?
---
We'd ended up on some rocky outcropping, waves crashing below. Maxime had pulled me up the uneven stones, his hand gripping mine too tightly, pulling me forward when I wanted to slow down.
"Look at this view!" he'd exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. "Isn't it amazing?"
I'd looked. Dark water, darker sky, stars scattered like broken glass. It should have been romantic. Instead, all I could think was how cold the wind was, how loud the waves were, how Maxime's hand in mine felt like it belonged to someone else's life.
"Next month," he'd said, pulling me closer, wrapping his arm around my waist, his voice full of plans I hadn't agreed to. "We'll go camping in the Alps. I'll teach you to surf—well, not surf exactly, but you know what I mean. Stand-up paddleboarding. That feeling of conquering something wild—it'll cure your sensitivity for sure!"
Cure my sensitivity. As if I were broken. As if the way my nervous system worked was a disease that could be fixed with enough adrenaline and forced exposure.
I'd nodded because I didn't know what else to do. Because this was supposed to be what I wanted—a boyfriend who planned adventures, who wanted to show me the world. Because everyone kept telling me this was healthy, that Maxime was good for me.
"You're so quiet tonight," Maxime had said, and I'd felt the implicit criticism in it. Be more fun. Be more normal. Be the girl I want you to be, not the girl you are.
He'd reached up to tuck my hair behind my ear—a gesture that was supposed to be tender. But his fingers had caught in the tangles the wind had created, pulling slightly, and I'd stepped sideways instinctively.
He hadn't noticed—or had chosen not to—just kept talking about his plans, our plans. "With me, you'll learn to really live," he'd said, squeezing my hand. "No more hiding behind training schedules and dietary restrictions and overprotective guardians who treat you like you're made of glass."
My heart had stuttered at that. Don't, I'd wanted to say. Don't talk about him like that. But I'd swallowed the words because how could I explain what I didn't understand myself?
I'd stared at our joined hands, at the way his thumb rubbed circles on my palm that I could feel but couldn't connect to. The touch existed on my skin but never reached deeper, never settled into my bones the way a single brush of Étienne's fingers could undo me completely.
And I'd thought: I don't want to be here.
The truth had hit me like spray from the waves—cold and shocking and impossible to ignore. I don't want to be here. I don't want his hand in mine. I don't want his plans for my future.
I want to go home.
"I'm cold," I'd said finally, the only truth I could voice. "Can we go back?"
The drive home had been quieter, tension replacing enthusiasm. At one point, he'd glanced over at me, his jaw tight. "During dinner, when the champagne tower fell—you leaned toward him."
My heart had stopped. "What?"
"Étienne." His voice had been flat, matter-of-fact, but I'd heard the accusation underneath. "You leaned toward him, not me. I was right there, but you—" He'd shaken his head. "Never mind. It's probably nothing."
"It was instinct," I'd said, the lie bitter on my tongue. "I would have leaned toward anyone close by."
"Instinct is worse," Maxime had replied, and I'd had no answer for that because he was right. Instinct was worse. Instinct meant my body knew something my mind refused to acknowledge.
We'd driven the rest of the way in silence, and when he'd dropped me at the gate, his goodnight kiss had landed on my cheek instead of my lips, both of us turning away at the last moment—him in frustration, me in relief.