Chapter 15
Elena
I trailed off, felt heat flooding my face. When I finally looked up at him, I saw understanding in his eyes, and something else—something soft and patient that made my chest ache.
"That's okay," he said gently. "We can figure it out together. No pressure, no expectations. Just seeing where it goes, you know? At whatever pace feels right for you."
The carousel music swelled behind us, and I became suddenly, acutely aware of everything—the way the evening air smelled like popcorn and cotton candy, the way the lights painted everything in warm gold, the way Maxime was looking at me like I was something precious and fragile and worth waiting for.
I thought about Étienne's face this morning when I'd told him I was going to Disneyland. The way he'd looked tired, worn down, like something was eating at him from the inside. I thought about the constant weight of obligation and gratitude, the way I always felt like I was performing for an audience of one, the exhaustion of never quite knowing where I stood or what was allowed.
And I thought about how Maxime was looking at me right now—not like I was a responsibility or a project or something that needed managing, but like I was just a girl he wanted to get to know better. Someone he chose because he wanted to, not because he had to.
My fingers slowly unclenched in my lap. I took a breath, then another, feeling something loosen in my chest that had been tight for longer than I could remember.
"Okay," I whispered, the word barely audible over the carousel music. Then, louder, more certain: "Okay. Yes. I want that too."
His smile started slow, then spread across his entire face until it lit him up from the inside. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." And as I said it, I felt something like relief wash over me, mixed with terror and excitement and a dozen other things I couldn't name. "I'm probably going to be terrible at this. At being a girlfriend. I'll forget to text back and I'll have to cancel plans for training and I won't always know the right thing to say or do—"
"Elena." He did reach for my hand then, his fingers warm as they closed around mine. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I'm just asking you to give this a chance. Give us a chance."
I looked down at our joined hands, at the way his thumb was tracing small circles on my palm, and thought about how different this felt from the few times Étienne's hand had accidentally brushed mine—those electric, forbidden touches that made me feel like I was doing something wrong just by wanting them.
This was different. This was allowed. This was normal and uncomplicated and exactly what I should want.
So why did I still feel like I was betraying something?
"Okay," I said again, pushing the thought away. "Yes. Let's give it a chance."
Maxime's grin widened even further, and he squeezed my hand gently. For a moment we just sat there, hands clasped between us, the carousel music playing and the lights twinkling and the sky fading from pink to purple overhead.
Then he laughed, a sound of pure joy and relief, and suddenly I was laughing too, the tension breaking like a soap bubble, leaving behind something lighter and easier.
"I can't believe you said yes," he said, shaking his head. "I was so nervous. I've been planning what to say all day and then when I actually started talking it all came out wrong—"
"It came out fine," I assured him, and was surprised to find I meant it. "It was sweet. You were sweet."
"Sweet," he repeated, making a face. "That's what every guy wants to hear."
"I meant it as a compliment."
"I know." He was still grinning, still holding my hand, and I felt something warm and unfamiliar spreading through my chest. Hope, maybe. Or possibility. Or just the simple pleasure of being wanted.
"There you are!" Chloé's voice cut through the moment like a knife, and we both jumped slightly, though Maxime didn't let go of my hand.
She was approaching with three drinks balanced precariously in her arms, and her grin when she saw our joined hands was absolutely triumphant. "Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Are you holding hands? You're holding hands! I leave you alone for twenty minutes and—"
"Chloé—" I started, but she was already thrusting drinks at us, her phone materializing in her free hand.
"This is happening. This is definitely happening. I'm documenting this for posterity because no one will believe me otherwise. Elena, you're smiling like an actual human person instead of a stressed-out robot. Maxime, you look like you just won the lottery. I'm taking pictures."
"Chloé, don't—" But she was already snapping photos, and Maxime was laughing, and somehow I was laughing too, the moment transforming from intimate to silly in the way only Chloé could manage.
She took approximately fifteen photos from various angles before finally putting her phone away and settling onto the bench beside me, forcing me to scoot closer to Maxime.
"So," she said, taking a long sip of her drink. "When's the wedding? I'm thinking spring. Maybe at the Beaumont estate if your uncle will let us use it. I'll be maid of honor, obviously—"
"Chloé!" I felt my face burning.
"What? I'm just planning ahead. It's called being a good friend." She grinned at Maxime. "You're welcome, by the way. For the strategic coffee break that gave you time to make your move."
"Very subtle," Maxime said, but he was smiling.
"Subtlety is overrated." She leaned back, looking enormously pleased with herself. "Now come on, the fireworks start in twenty minutes and I want good spots. And you two are not allowed to be gross and couple-y. At least not until I've had time to process this development."
She hauled us both to our feet, and we let ourselves be dragged toward the castle, Maxime's hand still warm in mine, Chloé chattering excitedly about fireworks and dinner plans and whether we should come back next month.
And as we walked, I tried very hard not to think about Étienne, about what he'd say if he could see me now, about whether this feeling in my chest was happiness or guilt or some complicated mixture of both.
The fireworks started right on schedule, explosions of color against the darkening sky, and Maxime's arm settled around my shoulders like it belonged there. Chloé provided running commentary on which colors were best and which patterns were most romantic, and I leaned into Maxime's warmth and tried to just be present, just enjoy this moment without overthinking it.
But as the finale approached, as the sky filled with gold and silver light, I found my mind drifting back to the Beaumont house, to Étienne probably working late in his study, to the complicated knot of feelings I had for him that I'd never quite managed to untangle.