Chapter 2
Étienne
Five years ago, when Nadia's company had imploded—bad investments, worse timing, the kind of financial catastrophe that turned a successful businesswoman into someone drowning in debt and legal battles overnight—she'd called Mother in desperation. As a single mother trying to salvage what remained of her business while fighting off creditors and lawyers, Nadia couldn't provide Elena with the stability a fifteen-year-old girl needed, especially one training at an elite level.
I'd been the one to suggest Elena come to Paris. Not because Mother had asked—though she had, repeatedly—but because I'd remembered a seven-year-old girl saying "uncle, don't sleep" in the darkness, and I'd thought maybe I could finally give her what her own mother, through no fault of her own, temporarily couldn't: a safe, stable home where she could focus on her training and her education without worrying about whether the electricity would be cut off or whether there'd be food on the table.
I'd told myself it was about responsibility. About honoring Marc's memory by taking care of the daughter he'd loved as his own. About being the stable adult presence in her life while Nadia rebuilt her company from the ground up, while Elena pursued her Olympic dreams.
I'd never expected it to feel like this.
"Étienne?" Rémi's voice pulled me back. "Are you listening?"
"I'm listening," I said. "Tell Catherine I'll meet with her Thursday morning. Nine o'clock. And remind Laurent the timeline isn't negotiable."
"You're more irritable than usual," Rémi observed. "Is it the leg?"
"The leg is fine." The lie came automatically. "I'm just tired of Laurent's political maneuvering."
Rémi was quiet for a moment. "The old man's health is declining faster than expected," he finally said, his voice careful. "Your mother is going to start pushing harder about marriage. You know that, right?"
My jaw tightened. Of course I knew. Isabelle had been dropping increasingly unsubtle hints for the past two years. The fact that I'd shown no interest in any of the women she'd paraded through various social functions had only intensified her concern.
"I'll handle my mother," I said.
"Will you? Because from where I'm standing—"
"I need to go," I interrupted, glancing back at Elena. "I need to make sure Elena hasn't forgotten about dinner. Mrs. Blake will have my head if she skips another meal."
I ended the call before Rémi could respond, then stood at the window for another moment. Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I would have a conversation with her, would gently but firmly reestablish the boundaries that seemed to have eroded. Would make it clear that whatever she thought she felt—whatever I was afraid she might be starting to feel—was simply confusion born of proximity and dependence.
But tonight, I would do what I'd always done: take care of her, make sure she ate properly, maintain the careful equilibrium that kept us both safe.
I left the study and made my way downstairs. In the hallway, I encountered Mrs. Blake—the housekeeper who'd been with the Beaumont family for twenty years and who treated Elena with the same fierce protectiveness she'd once shown me—who gave me a knowing look.
"Miss Elena is still in the drawing room," she said without my having to ask. "She's been watching those training videos for two hours. I tried to get her to take a break, but—"
"I'll talk to her," I said, and Mrs. Blake nodded before continuing toward the kitchen.
I stepped onto the terrace and found Elena already there. She was sitting on the grass just beyond the steps, her legs tucked beneath her, holding a glass of her post-training kale juice. Her profile was turned toward the garden, her expression distant and thoughtful.
I stood there for a moment, watching her, and thought: Marc, do you see her? She turned out so well. Beautiful, yes—that was undeniable. But more than that, she'd grown into someone strong and disciplined and determined, someone who'd survived her mother's emotional manipulation and the brutal demands of elite athletics and had somehow remained fundamentally kind.
And then came the thought that made my chest tighten: But I... the way I've been looking at her lately... it's not how an uncle looks at his niece.
I pushed the thought away and stepped forward, making my footsteps deliberately audible. She turned at the sound, and for just a moment before her expression shifted into a smile, I saw something that looked like guilt mixed with longing.
"You'll catch cold sitting on the grass," I said, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Mrs. Blake will blame me if you get sick before the qualifying rounds."
Elena's smile widened slightly. "I was just thinking," she said, her French still carrying that slight Bulgarian accent, the vowels rounded in that distinctly Eastern European way. "About tomorrow's training. Coach Michel wants me to add another difficulty element to the ribbon routine, but I'm not sure if—" She broke off, shaking her head. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear about gymnastics right now."
"I always want to hear about your training," I said. "But I'd prefer to hear about it inside, where you're not sitting on cold grass with a knee injury that needs careful management."
She looked down at her legs, her hand moving automatically to her left knee—the spot where she'd torn her meniscus two years ago. Something I tracked in the same detailed notes I kept about everything else in her life, because that was what I did: I managed, I controlled, I made sure every variable was accounted for and every risk minimized.
It was the only way I knew how to take care of her.
Elena stood gracefully and brushed grass from her leggings. "You're right," she said. "I should go inside. I just... sometimes I need to think outside, you know? When there's too much in my head."
I did know. But I couldn't tell her that, couldn't explain that I understood that need for external space to process internal chaos, because it would require explaining things about my past she didn't know and couldn't ever know.
"Is it your mother?" I asked. "Has she been calling again?"
Elena's expression flickered. "She called yesterday," she admitted. "She wanted to know about the qualifying schedule and whether I'd been keeping up with my coursework at Sciences Po. The usual things."
The usual things—which meant Nadia had been applying her particular brand of pressure, the kind that came wrapped in maternal concern but was really about results and performance. Nadia's company had recovered somewhat over the past five years, enough that she was no longer fighting for survival, but the experience had hardened her in ways that made me uncomfortable. She'd always been demanding, but now there was an edge of desperation to it, as if Elena's success could somehow compensate for everything Nadia had lost.
"Your coursework is fine," I said, more sharply than I'd intended. "Professor Laurent sent me your midterm grades last week—you're in the top five percent of your cohort. And your training is on schedule. You don't need to worry about meeting anyone's standards except your own."
Elena looked at me then, really looked at me, and there was something in her expression that made my pulse stutter—gratitude mixed with something warmer, something that felt more weighted than simple affection. "Thank you," she said softly. "For always... for taking care of everything. I know I don't say it enough, but I'm really grateful that you—that you let me stay here, that you—"
"Elena," I interrupted, because I couldn't let her finish that sentence. "You don't need to thank me. You're family. This is what family does."
Family. The word hung between us, and I saw something that might have been disappointment flicker across her face before she smiled again and nodded. "Right," she said. "Family."