Chapter 197

Chapter 197
Étienne

"That's because I was in control then." The admission came easily. "I could adjust my line, compensate for variables. This..." I gestured at the screen. "This, I can't control. All I can do is watch and hope I've prepared her well enough."

"You have," Rémi said with certainty. "Look at her. She's not the scared girl you pulled from that car. She's a world-class athlete about to prove how good she is."

The announcer's voice crackled: "Next to perform, representing France, Elena Petrova. Twenty-one years old, silver medalist at the World Championships..."

The statistics continued, but I stopped listening. My entire world had narrowed to the figure on screen, kneeling in opening position, eyes closed.

Please, I prayed to gods I didn't believe in. Let her shine.

The music started, and Elena opened her eyes.

I forgot how to breathe.

---

She was magnificent. The first sequence—high toss with 720-degree turn and precision catch—was flawless, and I heard Rémi and Sébastien's intake of breath.

"My God," Sébastien breathed. "Her flexibility..."

"Years of training," I said automatically, eyes never leaving the screen. "She started at six. Her mother pushed her hard. Too hard. But it gave her the foundation—"

"Étienne," Rémi cut me off. "Just watch."

He was right. I was narrating to avoid feeling. But Elena deserved better. She deserved my full attention.

So I watched. Watched as she moved through the routine with grace that seemed to defy physics, each movement flowing into the next with seamlessness that only came from absolute mastery. The step sequence was her strong suit, and she attacked it with confidence, her body bending impossibly, each step hitting the musical accent with precision.

"Still three tosses, two rotation sequences, and a balance element," I muttered, counting down, my hands gripping the armrests.

"She's got this," Rémi said.

Then came the double hoop toss with 1080-degree rotation—the most difficult element. I'd watched her practice this hundreds of times, had seen her nail it and fail it in equal measure, had held her while she cried in frustration.

She launched the hoops high, spinning through three full rotations, and for one perfect moment everything aligned. But as she came down, I saw it: the slight forward lean, the supporting leg dropping too fast, the momentary loss of control.

My heart stopped. For a fraction of a second, I was certain she would fall.

But she didn't. Somehow, impossibly, she caught herself, adjusted mid-motion, and continued as if nothing had happened. The recovery was so smooth most of the audience probably didn't register the mistake.

I sagged back, heart racing, right leg throbbing.

"Thank God," I breathed. "She didn't fall."

"Minor deduction," Sébastien translated from the French broadcast. "Lost control of her center, but recovered quickly."

Minor. The word should have been reassuring, but I knew how Elena would internalize it. Would replay that moment over and over, using it as evidence she wasn't good enough.

No, I thought fiercely. You were perfect. That recovery took more skill than a clean landing.

The music shifted, becoming more lyrical, and Elena moved into her step sequence. This was where she shone, where she became more than just an athlete executing elements. This was where she became art.

And she was breathtaking. The Choctaw step combined with the deep backbend was executed flawlessly, her torso folding until it was nearly perpendicular to her legs.

"This is the advantage of senior women's division," the commentator said. "Elena's performance quality is like prose poetry—full of emotion and tension."

I felt something loosen in my chest. She was doing it. Despite the error, despite the pressure, despite being alone on the other side of the world, she was proving what I'd always known: that she was extraordinary.

"She's performing for you," Sébastien said quietly. "You can see it in every movement."

"I know." My voice came out rough. "I've always known."

The final element was the combination spin—hoop threaded through her arm while she executed a folded-leg rotation at increasing speed. Technically demanding and visually stunning.

She nailed it. The hoop stayed perfectly in place, her rotation speed consistent, her body control absolute. When the music stopped and she snapped into her final position, chest heaving, face flushed but eyes bright, I finally allowed myself to breathe.

The relief was almost painful. She'd done it. Not perfectly—that error would cost her points—but brilliantly nonetheless.

"That," Rémi said into the silence, "was incredible. No wonder you're obsessed."

"I'm not obsessed," I said automatically, then caught his look and gave up. "Fine. I'm obsessed. But can you blame me?"

"Not even a little bit," Sébastien said, grinning.

My phone buzzed. Michel: Clean performance overall. One error on the double toss, but excellent recovery. She's pleased but frustrated. Scores in fifteen minutes.

Tell her I'm proud of her, I typed. Tell her the error doesn't matter. Tell her she was magnificent.

Already did. She wants to know if you watched.

Every second. Didn't blink.

Pause, then: She's smiling. First genuine smile since we got here. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.

I stared at the message, something warm and fierce expanding in my chest. This was what I'd been afraid to acknowledge: I didn't just love Elena. I was necessary to her in a way that went beyond guardianship or even romance. We'd built something over thirteen years that was so intertwined that separation would damage us both.

It should have terrified me. Instead, it felt right. Like everything since that night thirteen years ago had been leading to this.

"She's coming home in three days," I said. "And then..."

"And then you stop hiding," Rémi finished. "You let yourself be happy."

"We're not normal people," I pointed out. "The age gap—"

"Is less than a decade, which by European aristocracy standards is nothing," Sébastien interrupted. "And she's an adult who clearly knows her own mind. So stop looking for reasons why it's wrong and accept that maybe you deserve this."

Deserve. The word felt foreign. But looking at the frozen image of Elena on screen, caught mid-bow with that brilliant smile, I wanted to believe it.

"Maybe," I said quietly, and let myself imagine it: Elena coming home, moving back permanently, not as my ward but as my partner. Waking up beside her every morning. Watching her train without having to pretend. Building something together that was chosen freely.

It was a dangerous dream. But as I watched the score flash—high enough to guarantee advancement—I decided I didn't care about the danger anymore.

Elena had taken the risk. Had looked at everything we stood to lose and chosen me anyway. The least I could do was meet her courage with my own.

"When she gets back," I said, surprising myself with the certainty, "I'm telling my mother. My father. Everyone. No more hiding."

Rémi and Sébastien exchanged glances, and I saw concern there, worry about what that revelation would cost. But I also saw support.

"We'll be there," Rémi said simply. "Whatever you need."

"Thank you." I stood, suddenly needing to move. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to call my girlfriend and tell her how incredible she was."

Girlfriend. The word felt strange, too casual for what Elena was to me, but it would do for now. We'd figure out the rest when she came home.