Chapter 11
Elena
The dining room felt like a museum the next morning—careful silence, expensive surfaces, the particular tension of people trying very hard not to disturb the peace. I'd chosen my outfit carefully: an ivory knit dress Isabelle had bought me with the comment that "cream tones suit your coloring, dear"—her way of saying I looked too pale.
Étienne was already seated, breakfast barely touched, attention on his tablet with that intensity that meant he was either reading something important or avoiding looking at me. Charcoal gray today instead of his usual black, slacks and a cashmere sweater that probably cost as much as a used car. He'd put on his frameless gold glasses—the ones he only wore for extended reading—which made him look even more severe and untouchable.
"Good morning, Uncle Étienne," I said, using the formal address that had become our default lately, the one that put distance between us even as it acknowledged the strange intimacy of living together. "Did you sleep well?"
He looked up and I saw his throat work as he swallowed, saw his eyes track over my dress before he caught himself and looked away. "Well enough. And you?"
"Fine, thank you." I slid into my usual seat across from him. Mrs.Blake immediately appeared with my breakfast—poached eggs, whole grain toast, exactly 150 grams of fresh berries, a small bowl of Greek yogurt. The same breakfast I'd eaten every morning for three years, calibrated to my nutritional needs and approved by both Michel and the nutritionist Étienne had hired.
"Thank you, Mrs.Blake," I said quietly. He inclined his head and disappeared, leaving us alone with nothing but the soft clink of silverware against china.
This was what meals were like in the Beaumont household. Quiet, controlled, perfect posture and perfect manners and perfect distance from anything resembling human connection. No one talked with their mouths full or reached across the table or laughed too loudly or checked their phones. Very civilized, very French, very different from meals with Chloé where we'd talk over each other and steal food and sometimes laugh until we couldn't breathe.
I'd learned to adapt. To sit with my back straight and elbows off the table, eat slowly, make polite small talk about training or classes without saying anything too personal. To be the kind of person who fit into this world of quiet wealth and careful manners, even if sometimes I felt like I was playing a role in an expensive, boring play.
"You have training this morning?" Étienne asked, still not quite looking at me, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder.
"At ten. Michel wants to work on my ball routine—we're changing the music and it's throwing off my timing." Small bite of toast, careful chewing, swallow before continuing. "Then I have class at two."
That was a lie. Or partial truth. I had class at two, but I'd already decided to skip it for meeting Maxime at the library. The guilt sat heavy in my stomach, mixing with the eggs, making me slightly nauseous. But I pushed it down. I was allowed to skip one class. I was allowed to prioritize coursework over a lecture I could catch up on later. I was allowed to—
"I can have the driver take you," Étienne said, something off about his tone, too casual in a way that made me immediately suspicious. "I have meetings all afternoon anyway."
"That's fine. I can take the Metro." I didn't want the driver, didn't want the reminder that I couldn't go anywhere without Beaumont resources. Didn't want to explain where I was going or why.
"The Metro is crowded. You'll be tired after training." His fingers tightened around his coffee cup. I watched the tension ripple through his hand, knuckles going white against porcelain. "Let me arrange the car."
Not really a request. This was how Étienne operated—making suggestions that were actually commands, offering help that was actually control, all wrapped in concern that might be genuine but felt like suffocation.
"Okay," I said quietly, because arguing would only make things worse, would only lead to questions about why I didn't want the car, what I was hiding. "Thank you."
He nodded and went back to his tablet. I went back to my breakfast. The silence stretched between us like a physical thing, heavy and uncomfortable and filled with all the words we weren't saying.
I found myself watching him despite my better judgment, cataloging details I'd memorized over years—the way he held his coffee cup, the precise angle of his reading glasses, the small furrow between his brows when concentrating. His hands, which I'd always thought were beautiful in an almost abstract way. Long fingers, prominent veins, that particular elegance from never having done manual labor. Chloé had once said they were "criminally attractive" and gone into graphic detail about what she imagined he could do with them. I'd had to hang up because I couldn't hear that about Étienne, couldn't reconcile the man who'd raised me with the object of someone else's sexual fantasy.
But I'd thought about it anyway, late at night when I couldn't sleep. And hated myself for it.
"What?" Étienne's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and defensive. I realized I'd been staring.
"Nothing," I said quickly, heat creeping up my neck. "I was just—you look nice. The sweater suits you."
His jaw tightened. "If that's all you wanted to say, then you don't need to say it."
The rebuke stung more than it should have. I looked down at my plate to hide the hurt I knew was written on my face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Finish your breakfast, Elena." Softer now but still distant, still maintaining that careful barrier. "You'll be late for training."
I wanted to argue, to ask what I'd done wrong, why a simple compliment warranted that cold response. But I knew better than to push when he was in this mood. Pushing only made him withdraw further, made the distance grow until I felt like I was shouting across a canyon and hearing only my own echo.
So I finished in silence, acutely aware of him across the table, of the weight of his attention even when he was pretending not to look. And I thought about Maxime's easy smile, his uncomplicated friendliness, the way he'd made me feel like I was allowed to exist without constantly monitoring every word and gesture for signs of failure.
How much easier it would be to spend time with someone who didn't make me feel like I was walking through a minefield every time I opened my mouth.
I felt guilty for thinking it. Étienne had given me everything, had taken me in when I had nowhere else to go, had protected and provided for me and never once made me feel like a burden even though I obviously was. I owed him my gratitude, my loyalty, my careful adherence to his unspoken rules.
But God, I was tired of being grateful. Tired of being careful. Tired of feeling like I had to earn the right to take up space in this beautiful house with its beautiful things and its beautiful, untouchable guardian who looked at me like I was something precious and fragile and utterly forbidden.
"I should go get ready," I said, standing and placing my napkin carefully beside my plate the way Isabelle had taught me. "Thank you for breakfast."
Étienne nodded without looking up, and I escaped to my room, heart beating too fast, already counting down the hours until I could sit across from Maxime in the library and pretend, just for a little while, that I was a normal university student with normal problems and normal desires.