Chapter 22
Étienne
I poured another whiskey and returned to the window. The lights in Elena's room were still on, and I found myself wondering what she was doing, whether she was thinking about those seventeen minutes, whether she understood what she'd been testing.
Maxime would be better for her. The thought was bitter, but I forced myself to examine it honestly. My nephew was young, uncomplicated, free from the baggage of guardianship. He could offer Elena the normal relationship she deserved, where power dynamics weren't hopelessly skewed, where every interaction wasn't shadowed by questions of propriety. He could take her to movies without worrying how it looked, could hold her hand in public without people whispering about age difference, could build something not founded on the fundamentally unequal ground of guardian and ward.
She should be with someone like Maxime. Someone who could give her normalcy, spontaneity, uncomplicated affection without the weight of responsibility and guilt. Not someone like me—a man with a ruined leg and a past he couldn't explain, who'd spent years learning to control every variable, whose profession required ruthlessness that had no place in healthy relationships.
Not someone who'd been 001, who'd built a reputation on ice-cold precision and willingness to push beyond normal limits, who'd sacrificed his body on a racetrack because he'd been too arrogant to recognize when he was beaten. Not someone who now wielded power with the same calculating efficiency he'd once applied to overtaking maneuvers.
Elena deserved better than to be trapped by someone like me, someone who'd already demonstrated his willingness to destroy his own body in pursuit of victory, someone who spent the past five years channeling competitive drive into building a business empire while trying to atone for past failures.
She deserved someone who could love her without constant guilt, someone who didn't lie awake calculating the exact degree of impropriety in every interaction, someone who wasn't haunted by the memory of her head on his hand.
Some prices you paid without complaint. Some sacrifices you made because the alternative was unthinkable. And some boundaries you maintained no matter how much it hurt, because the cost of crossing them was higher than any temporary satisfaction could justify.
I wouldn't sacrifice Elena too. Not for this. Not for feelings I had no right to have.
The lights in her room finally went dark, and I stood at the window for a long moment before turning to the quarterly reports I'd been avoiding. Work was safe. Work was manageable. Work didn't involve twenty-year-old girls with amber eyes and Instagram captions that felt like accusations.
Elena
The afternoon light slanted through my bedroom windows as I stood before the mirror, examining the dress Isabelle Beaumont—Étienne's mother, the elegant woman who treated me with a warmth that sometimes made me ache for what I'd lost when my own father died had sent up three days ago with a note in her elegant script: Pour ma chère Elena—something befitting the occasion.
The champagne gold silk clung to every curve years of training had carved into my body. The neckline was modest enough to pass inspection but cut to reveal my collarbones and throat in a way that felt more intimate than I'd intended. The waist cinched tight—I could feel the boning pressing against my ribs with each breath, a constant reminder that beauty came with constraints.
I adjusted my pearl earrings with fingers that trembled slightly, then draped the ivory shawl across my elbows. The mirror showed someone who looked like she belonged at a Beaumont gala, but the tightness around my ribs reminded me this was performance, not reality. A costume I hadn't chosen. I smoothed my hands down the silk, trying to calm the flutter of anxiety in my chest, trying to convince myself I could do this.
My phone buzzed against the vanity, and I flinched at the sound. Mother's face filled the screen, and I took a breath before answering with the smile she'd trained into me years ago—the one that never quite reached my eyes but looked perfect through a camera lens.
"Zdravei, Mama," I said, slipping into Bulgarian automatically.
"Let me see the dress." No greeting, just the implicit demand. I turned slowly so she could assess every angle the way she used to assess my routines, my shoulders automatically pulling back, my chin lifting to the exact angle she preferred.
"Good," she said after a pause that felt like judgment. "Isabelle has excellent taste. The color suits you, and the cut is appropriate—elegant without being provocative. You look like you belong there."
I swallowed the urge to say that belonging didn't always feel like victory, my throat tight. "Thank you, Mama. I wanted everything to be perfect for Isabelle's birthday."
"Her eye for detail is exacting," Mother continued in her lecture tone. "She'll notice if your posture isn't perfect, if your smile seems forced, if you use the wrong fork. The Beaumonts are old money, Elena. They don't need to announce their status—they simply embody it. You must do the same tonight."
I nodded, automatically adjusting my posture even as my hand moved to touch the pearls at my ears—a nervous habit I'd never quite broken. Shoulders back, chin level, weight balanced. The body memory of a thousand corrections. My fingers worried at the earring back, and I forced myself to drop my hand, to stand still under her scrutiny.
"And remember," she added, her tone softening slightly, "Isabelle sees this as an opportunity to showcase you to their social circle. Many of these families have connections that could benefit your career after you retire. You need to make the right impression."
The word 'retire' sent its familiar spike of anxiety through my chest, and I felt my breath catch, the boning suddenly too tight. But I kept my voice steady, my smile fixed. "Of course, Mama. I understand."
"How is training?" The question came weighted with expectation.
"Coach Laroche says the new routine is coming together well. We're refining the transitions." The lie came easily after years of practice, but my fingers found the edge of the vanity, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles went white. I didn't mention the falls, the frustration, the way my body sometimes felt like it was betraying me.
"Good. The European Championships are crucial for Olympic qualification. You cannot afford any—" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Any distractions."
The emphasis made my stomach tighten, made my grip on the vanity edge harder. Did she somehow know about Maxime? About the way my pulse jumped whenever Étienne walked into a room? About how I'd tested boundaries in his car and felt something shift between us? I felt heat creep up my neck, and I was grateful she couldn't see my body's betrayal through the screen.
"No distractions," I echoed, my voice coming out steadier than I felt. "I promise."
After we disconnected, I stood alone with my reflection, my hand pressed against my chest where my heart was racing. The dress felt tighter with each breath, the boning digging into my ribs like a physical reminder of all the ways I was supposed to contain myself. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to slow my breathing, trying to push down the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm me.
I thought about tonight's performance—gracious and grateful, poised and pretty, the perfect ward reflecting well on her guardian's generosity. My hands shook as I reached for my clutch, and I had to take three tries to get the clasp open.
I made myself a promise, pressing my palm flat against the silk over my stomach: this dress would go to the back of my closet after tonight. I'd wear it once, play the part expected of me, then pack it away with all the other costumes that didn't fit who I was becoming.