Chapter 196

Chapter 196
Étienne

My phone buzzed with a message two hours after her landing. I grabbed it immediately: Made it. Exhausted. Talk later.

Michel's update came next: She's at the hotel. Looked tired but alert. Training session tomorrow at 10 AM local.

I'd paid him an obscene amount to send hourly updates, ostensibly to "monitor her recovery" but really because I needed to know she was safe, that she wasn't struggling alone in a hotel room on the other side of the world.

Another message from her: Found your care package. You're ridiculous.

I smiled despite myself, imagining her discovering everything I'd hidden in her suitcase. The competition leotard from her favorite designer. The warm-up jacket in the exact weight she preferred. The massage oil for muscle tension. And, in a moment of weakness, a small bottle of my cologne, a handkerchief I'd deliberately worn for a week, and a handwritten note.

The note made me cry, you know. In a good way. But still.

What did it say? I typed, even though I knew exactly what I'd written.

You know what it said.

Humor me.

Long pause: "Elena, remember to eat properly and rest well. If you feel overwhelmed, smell this cologne and imagine I'm there. I'm counting the hours until you come home. — Étienne"

And?

And it's perfect. Even when you're being impossibly controlling and putting tracking devices in my luggage.

I'd thought she wouldn't notice that. Should have known better.

It's not a tracking device. It's a safety measure.

Potato, potahto. I love you anyway.

The casual way she said it made my chest tight. Seeing it in text, stark and undeniable, hit differently.

I love you too. Try to sleep. You have training in fourteen hours.

I know. Also, you're paying Michel to spy on me, aren't you?

I prefer to think of it as ensuring adequate support.

Uh-huh. Go to work. Stop obsessing. I'll be fine.

She would be. I'd made sure of it. Had called in every favor, used every connection, thrown obscene amounts of money at the problem. The best hotel, facilities, medical support on standby.

But none of that could protect her from the one thing I couldn't control: her own mind. The pressure she put on herself, the perfectionism that drove her to train until she collapsed, the voice that sounded like her mother telling her she wasn't good enough.

If you feel overwhelmed, I typed carefully, call me. Doesn't matter what time. I'll answer.

I know. You always do.

Because you're the most important thing in my life. More important than the company, more important than my reputation, more important than anything.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times: How am I supposed to sleep when you say things like that?

By remembering that I'll be here when you wake up. That I'm not going anywhere.

That should be creepy. Why isn't it creepy?

Because you love me anyway.

I do. God help me, I really do.

Get some rest, solnyshko. The endearment slipped out, the Russian word for "little sun" that I'd never said aloud but had thought a thousand times.

Okay. Goodnight, Étienne. Or good morning? I can't keep track.

Goodnight. Dream of gold medals and perfect landings.

I'll dream of you instead.

I stared at my phone like a teenager, warmth spreading through my chest. She was mine. Across continents and time zones, through pressure and competition and all the obstacles I couldn't remove, she was mine.

And in two days, I would watch her prove what I'd known for years: that she was extraordinary.

---

Paris – Saturday Morning

The tea room was empty when I arrived at 9:30, exactly twenty minutes before Elena's performance. Sébastien had closed it to customers at my request—or rather, at the request of the obscene amount I'd paid him. Rémi was already there, setting up his laptop, while Sébastien fussed with the tea service.

"You look terrible," Rémi observed. "When's the last time you slept?"

"Wednesday." I dropped into the chair he'd positioned in front of the screen, my leg already aching. "Maybe Tuesday."

"Jesus, Étienne." Sébastien set down tea I hadn't asked for. "She's done this dozens of times. She's a professional."

"I know." I wrapped my hands around the cup. "Doesn't make it easier."

"Because you're not watching as her guardian anymore," Rémi said quietly. "You're watching as someone in love. That's different."

He was right. Every other competition, I'd maintained at least the pretense of professional distance. Had watched with the critical eye of someone evaluating technique rather than the desperate hope of someone whose happiness was inextricably linked to hers.

My phone buzzed. Michel: She's warming up. Looks focused.

I'd been getting updates every thirty minutes, each failing to ease the knot in my gut. I knew the statistics—she'd never fallen during a qualifier, her scores were consistently top three. But statistics meant nothing when I could see the slight tremor in her hands in the warm-up footage Michel had sent.

"She texted this morning," I said, surprising myself. "Said she was nervous. That the humidity was making her skin feel wrong, that all the sounds were too loud."

"What did you tell her?" Sébastien asked.

"To close her eyes and listen to my voice. To breathe with me." I'd sat in my office at dawn, talking her down from a panic attack via video call. The three-two-one countdown. The specific tone that bypassed her anxiety and spoke to the part that trusted me absolutely.

It had worked. It always worked. But I hated that I couldn't be there in person, couldn't ground her with touch.

The screen flickered to life, showing the venue. The arena was smaller than expected, more intimate, which meant Elena would hear every sound from the audience. I made a mental note to have Michel check if she had her noise-dampening earbuds, then realized I was already slipping back into obsessive management.

Except it wasn't just management anymore. It was love. Desperate, consuming, completely inappropriate love I'd finally stopped trying to deny.

"They're starting," Sébastien said unnecessarily, as if I wasn't already fixated on the screen.

I watched competitors file out, searching for Elena. There—the flash of deep blue, the precise posture that marked her as different. She looked calm, composed, every inch the professional. But I'd spent years learning to read her micro-expressions, and I could see the tightness around her eyes, the way she gripped her hoop too hard.

Breathe, I thought. You've got this. I'm here.

My phone buzzed. From her: I can feel you watching. It helps.

The message shouldn't have been possible—her phone should be locked away. But this was Elena, who'd never met a rule she couldn't find a creative way around.

Always, I typed back. I'll always be watching.

"001," Sébastien said, using the nickname deliberately, "you look more nervous now than before Eau Rouge in the rain."