Chapter 190
Chapter 190
Elena
The morning light filtered through unfamiliar curtains, gentle and golden. For a moment, suspended between sleep and waking, I couldn't quite place where I was—only that I felt safe, warm, cocooned in a contentment so complete it made my chest ache.
Then memory returned: Étienne's kiss last night, the way his control had finally shattered, the promises we'd made to each other. I was in my own bed, but everything had changed.
I reached across the mattress instinctively, seeking him, but found only cool sheets and empty space. Disappointment flared before I caught the scent drifting from the kitchen—coffee, butter, something sweet baking—and heard the soft clink of dishes.
He was still here. He'd stayed.
I pushed myself upright and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. I found him at the stove, his back to me, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he tended a pan. His hair was slightly damp, catching the light, and I watched him for a long moment before moving forward.
I didn't overthink it. I just slipped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his shirt, feeling his heart kick hard against my palm.
"Good morning," I murmured against his shoulder blade.
For a heartbeat he went absolutely still. Then he set down the spatula and turned in the circle of my arms. His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones, gray eyes searching mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"Good morning," he said softly, and leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead that lingered. When he pulled back, there was something in his expression that made the world tilt. "Happy birthday, Elena."
I blinked. Birthday. My birthday. I'd completely forgotten. But he hadn't. Of course he hadn't.
"You remembered?"
His smile was soft, almost sad. "How could I forget?" He reached for my hand, threading our fingers together. "Come on. Eat something first, and then we'll go."
"Go?" I studied his face for clues. "Go where?"
"You'll see."
---
An hour later, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror applying makeup with trembling hands. I'd kept it simple and chosen a cream-colored knit dress with the camel coat Étienne had bought me last winter. The outfit felt grown-up in a way that made me simultaneously nervous and excited.
When I emerged, Étienne was waiting in the hallway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe. He'd put on his glasses—the black-rimmed ones—and his gaze tracked over me with an appreciation so open it made my cheeks heat.
"Beautiful," he said quietly.
I smoothed my hands down my dress, suddenly self-conscious. "Is it too formal?"
"It's perfect." He came closer, fingers finding my collar where it had folded awkwardly, straightening it. His knuckles brushed my neck, and I felt goosebumps rise. "Just right."
We took the stairs to the garage, his hand hovering at my back. He opened the passenger door and waited until I was settled before rounding the hood.
"So," I said once he'd started the engine. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"
His mouth curved. "What do you think?"
"I think you're enjoying this far too much."
"Perhaps." He glanced over, and there was a lightness in his expression I'd never seen before. "But you'll like it. I promise."
I believed him completely.
---
We'd been on the highway for twenty minutes when Étienne spoke again.
"We won't be coming back to Paris tonight."
I turned to stare at him. "What?"
"I've already packed a bag for you." He nodded toward the back seat, where I now noticed overnight cases. "Everything you'll need."
"When did you—" I twisted to look, then back at him. "You packed for me? While I was asleep?"
"After you fell asleep, yes." There was no apology in his tone. "I wanted everything to be ready."
He'd planned this. Not just breakfast, not just a day trip, but an entire overnight excursion. He'd gone through my things, selected clothes, packed them with that careful attention he brought to everything. The level of control should probably have alarmed me. Instead, I felt something warm and bright unfurling in my chest.
"How long?" I asked. "How long are we going for?"
His hand found mine on the center console, threading our fingers together. "As long as you want to stay."
---
The landscape changed as we drove south, urban sprawl giving way to countryside. Lavender fields stretched toward the horizon, olive groves clustered on hillsides. The air carried hints of herbs and earth.
When I finally spoke, my voice came out soft. "We're going to the south?"
"Somewhere very quiet," Étienne confirmed, thumb tracing circles on my hand. "Somewhere no one will bother us."
I studied his profile—the strong jaw, the slight tension around his eyes. "Are you nervous?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes."
The honesty made me smile. "Me too."
His hand tightened on mine, and we drove on in companionable silence.
---
Three and a half hours later, Étienne guided the car onto a narrow lane that wound upward through vineyards and cypress trees. Then the house came into view, and my breath caught.
Honey-colored stone walls, blue shutters, terracotta roof glowing in the afternoon light. Olive trees flanked the drive, and behind the house, rows of dormant grapevines marched down the hillside.
Étienne stopped the car and killed the engine. For a moment neither of us moved. Then I fumbled with my seatbelt and tumbled out, drawn by something I couldn't name.
The air hit me first—clean and sharp, carrying lavender and rosemary. I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
"It's beautiful," I breathed, tears pricking my eyes. "Étienne, it's—"
I felt him before I saw him, draping something soft around my shoulders. "It gets cool in the hills," he murmured. "Even in autumn."
I turned to face him and found him watching me with an expression that made my heart stutter. There was vulnerability there, as if my reaction mattered more than I could understand.
"Come on." He took my hand. "Let me show you inside."
He unlocked the door and it swung open, revealing exposed stone walls, wide-plank floors, furniture in natural linens. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and windows framed views of the vineyard.
But it was what hung above the fireplace that stopped me.
It was me.
Me at the World Championships, mid-routine in my orange leotard. The photographer had caught me at the apex of a throw, ribbon streaming above me in a perfect arc, my body suspended weightless. My face was turned toward the light, expression fierce and focused and utterly alive.
The photograph was enormous—easily six feet across—beautifully framed. Seeing myself like that, through his eyes, made something crack open in my chest.
I pressed my hands to my mouth, unable to speak. My hands were trembling, vision blurring with tears.
Étienne moved to stand beside me, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral. "This is my favorite," he said quietly, gaze on the photograph. "The way you look in competition—like nothing else exists, like you're completely free." His voice dropped. "Like a bird in flight."
The tears spilled over. I turned blindly toward him and threw myself into his arms. He caught me, arms coming around me immediately.
"You're so good to me," I choked out against his shirt. "How can you be so good to me?"
"Shh." His hand cradled the back of my head. "You deserve everything, Elena. Everything I can give you and more."
I buried my face in his chest and let myself cry—for the beauty of this place, for the thoughtfulness of this gift, for the fact that he saw me in a way no one else ever had.
"Happy birthday, Elena," he murmured against my hair. "Happy birthday, my love."