Chapter 25
Elena
The champagne silk whispered against my legs as I made my way to the waterside terrace where Isabelle's birthday dinner was already in full swing. Three or four tables draped in Belgian linen, Hermès china catching the early evening light, Baccarat crystal throwing fractured rainbows across white tablecloths. The guest list was pure European high society—Beaumont Group partners, old aristocracy, politicians whose names I recognized from the papers Étienne read over breakfast.
Isabelle stood at the center of it all in black Chanel velvet, the emerald necklace I'd helped her choose glittering at her throat. My grandmother's matching earrings caught the light as she laughed at something one of the women said. They were praising her—how young she looked, how elegant, how kind the years had been.
I took my seat at a side table and let my gaze drift. That's when I saw him—Étienne, near the far edge of the courtyard talking to a woman with Maxime's sharp cheekbones and the same way of holding a wine glass like a scepter. Corinne Delacroix. His mother. Even from here I could read the tension in her shoulders, the sharp gestures. Étienne's posture was controlled as always, but something in the angle of his head suggested this wasn't a pleasant conversation.
My fingers tightened around the clutch in my lap. I looked away and pulled out my phone, needing something to anchor myself. Maxime had sent another message, something sweet that made warmth bloom in my chest despite the stiffness of my surroundings. I was typing a reply when I heard voices from around the corner—a woman's voice, sharp with concern, then Maxime's familiar exasperated tone.
I should have moved away. Instead I froze, finger hovering over my screen, my breath catching in my throat.
"That girl is certainly beautiful," Corinne was saying, her tone carrying that particular quality of a compliment that isn't one. "Like a work of art, really. But Maxime, you must see that her relationship with Étienne is unusually close. It concerns me."
Heat flooded my face even though no one could see me. My heart started hammering against my ribs and I pressed one hand against my chest, trying to steady my breathing. Shit. She'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed.
"Maman, come on." Maxime sounded exactly like he did when he thought I was being too cautious. "Elena's amazing. She's on the national team, she's brilliant at school, and she's got this incredible future ahead of her. What's the problem?"
I bit my lower lip hard enough to hurt, torn between wanting to hear him defend me and wanting to run before I heard something worse.
"The problem is how close she is to Isabelle," Corinne replied, her voice tight. "You know Isabelle and I have never quite... seen eye to eye. The girl will always side with them. Not with you."
My nails dug into my palm. The urge to march around that corner and tell her exactly what I thought of her political calculations made my legs twitch, but I stayed frozen in place.
"Maman, we've been together for one week. One week." Maxime's laugh was affectionate but firm, and my heart did something complicated, a painful squeeze followed by a flutter. "This is supposed to be the honeymoon phase, remember? I really like her. Can't you just be happy for me and stop looking for problems?"
The words should have made me giddy—I really like her—but all I could focus on was the footsteps on the gravel behind me. That distinctive rhythm with the barely perceptible hitch. Étienne, heading toward the cigar cabinet, taking the long way to avoid the crowd.
The footsteps paused.
My breath stopped completely. He could hear them. Could hear Corinne dissecting my relationship with the family, could hear Maxime defending me with that casual confidence of someone who had no idea how complicated everything was. My fingers trembled around my phone and I had to fight the urge to turn around, to see his face, to know what he was thinking.
Then Maxime spoke again: "We've been together for one week. This is the sweetest time, Maman. I really like her. I'm not going to let you ruin this."
The silence felt thick enough to choke on. I squeezed my eyes shut, my free hand finding the edge of the stone wall beside me and gripping it hard enough that the rough surface bit into my palm. I couldn't see Étienne but I could picture him perfectly—hand tightening around the cigar case, jaw clenching, eyes going flat and distant as he forced himself to keep walking.
When his footsteps resumed they were faster, almost mechanical. Then they stopped completely for a moment, and I heard what might have been a sharp breath, but the evening breeze picked up and carried the sound away before I could be sure. When he started walking again, his pace was even more deliberate, as if he was concentrating very hard on putting one foot in front of the other.
I realized I was gripping my phone so tight my knuckles had gone white. Fuck. This was such a mess. Such a goddamn mess.
---
By the time I got back to my seat, my hands had stopped shaking but the hollow feeling in my chest had expanded into something larger. I pasted on a smile that felt like it might crack my face in half and nodded at Isabelle's friends who stopped to compliment my dress, at business associates who made polite small talk. I answered on autopilot while Maxime's words played on loop in my head, each repetition making my chest tighten a little more.
Isabelle's welcoming toast began, her voice carrying effortlessly across the terrace. She looked radiant, every inch the gracious hostess, and when she gestured toward a blonde woman at the main table, her smile held that particular matchmaking quality that made my stomach drop.
"I'm so delighted that my dear friend Sophie could join us," Isabelle said, emphasis subtle but unmistakable. "I'm pleased to say she's back in Paris and looking absolutely radiant. I do hope the young people here will take the opportunity to get to know each other better."
Sophie de la Tour rose gracefully, golden hair in an elegant chignon, pale blue gown probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. She was beautiful in that effortless, expensive way that came from generations of good breeding, and when she smiled at Étienne, it was with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she had to offer.
I dug my nails into my thigh under the table, the silk of my dress doing nothing to cushion the bite of pain. Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't—
I looked.
Étienne set down his wine glass with deliberate care, straightened with that controlled tension I'd learned to recognize as a warning. When he spoke, his voice cut through the polite murmur like a blade through silk.
"Mother, Mademoiselle de la Tour is indeed remarkable, and I'm certain she'll have no shortage of worthy suitors. However, I have no current plans to pursue matrimony, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from making these arrangements without consulting me."
The silence that followed made everyone suddenly very interested in their wine glasses. Isabelle's smile never wavered but I saw the tightness around her eyes. Sophie merely inclined her head with graceful acceptance, as if public rejection was just another minor social inconvenience.
My phone buzzed and I jumped slightly, my heart racing. Maxime's name with a string of heart emojis. Where are you? I want to see you.