Chapter 42
Elena
As Laurent walked away, I caught sight of Maxime in the observation area. His face was tight with anger, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He'd heard everything—or at least enough. Our eyes met across the distance, and I saw the concern there, the desire to come to my defense. But what could he do? What could anyone do against the truth?
I turned back to my warm-up, trying to block out the whispers, the sidelong glances, the weight of judgment pressing down on me from all sides. But Annabelle's words had wormed their way under my skin, joining all the other doubts and insecurities that had been building since breakfast.
Was she right? Was I just a charity case? A spoiled princess playing at being an athlete while real gymnasts worked themselves to the bone?
"Elena!" Michel's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts like a whip. "Floor work. Now. Let's see that routine we've been working on."
I hurried over to the floor mat, my legs feeling unsteady, my mind still reeling from Annabelle's attack. I was acutely aware of Maxime watching from the sidelines, of the other gymnasts pretending not to stare, of Michel's stern expression that expected nothing less than perfection.
The music started—Chopin's Nocturne, hauntingly beautiful—and I forced everything else out of my mind, focusing solely on the routine.
My arms flowed through the opening sequence, trying to find the grace that usually came naturally. The first tumbling pass approached—a side aerial into a back handspring. I launched into it, but my timing was off, my mind still tangled in Annabelle's words. My right foot landed, but not quite solidly enough. I could feel the wobble, the lack of control.
"Connection, Elena!" Michel's voice was sharp with frustration. "Where's your head? You're moving like a machine, not a dancer."
I tried to adjust for the next sequence, tried to pour feeling into the movements, but it was impossible. Every gesture felt wooden, every turn mechanical. Annabelle's words echoed in my head—mediocre technique, non-existent artistry, spoiled princess playing dress-up.
The music swelled toward the climax, and I prepared for the final tumbling pass. But as I went into the aerial, I saw Maxime lean forward in his seat, his face full of concern and support, and something in me just... broke.
My landing was a disaster. My right foot came down wrong, my ankle rolling slightly, sending a sharp spike of pain up my leg. I stumbled, barely catching myself before I fell completely.
The music continued for a few more bars, but I'd lost the choreography entirely. I stood there, frozen in the middle of the mat, my chest heaving, tears threatening to spill over.
Michel's whistle blew, cutting through the music. The silence that followed was deafening.
"Everyone take five," Michel said, his voice carefully controlled. Then, to me: "Elena. With me."
I followed him to the side of the mat, my ankle throbbing, my face burning with shame. I could feel everyone watching—Maxime with his worried expression, the other gymnasts with barely concealed satisfaction, Annabelle smirking from where she'd returned from Michel's office.
"What's going on with you today?" Michel asked, his voice low but intense. "That was the worst I've seen you perform in months. Your head isn't in this at all."
"I'm sorry, Coach," I managed, my voice breaking. "I just—"
"I don't want apologies. I want focus." He studied my face, and some of the hardness in his expression softened. "Is this about what Annabelle said?"
I couldn't answer. My throat was too tight, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
Michel sighed, running a hand over his face. "Elena, listen to me. You are talented. You work hard. But you have to stop letting other people get in your head. If you can't block out the noise—from Annabelle, from your boyfriend, from whoever—then you'll never make it in competition."
"I know," I whispered. "I know, I just—"
"No excuses." Michel's voice was firm but not unkind. "Take a real break. Ice that ankle. Get your head straight. Then we'll try again."
As I limped toward the bench, trying to ignore the pain in my ankle and the much worse pain in my chest, I heard voices behind me—low, vicious whispers that weren't quite meant for me to hear but loud enough that I caught every word.
"Did you see that landing? Fucking pathetic."
"I know, right? And Michel still goes easy on her. If that were any of us, he'd have us doing conditioning drills until we puked."
"It's the Beaumont money. Has to be. There's no other explanation for why she's still here."
"God, I'd kill for that kind of privilege. Must be nice to suck and still get treated like royalty."
The words hit like physical blows, each one landing with precision. I kept walking, kept my head down, refused to let them see how much it hurt. But inside, something was crumbling, the careful walls I'd built around my insecurities collapsing under the weight of their contempt.
I reached the bench and sank down, reaching for the ice pack with shaking hands. Maxime was there instantly, having abandoned his spot in the observation area despite Michel's rules.
"Elena, what happened? Are you hurt?" His hands hovered over my ankle, his face creased with concern.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, even though we both knew it was a lie. "Just a bad landing."
"Bullshit." Maxime's voice was low and angry. "I heard what that girl said to you. I heard all of it. Elena, you can't let her—"
"Please," I cut him off, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please just... not right now. I can't—" My voice broke, and I had to stop, had to force myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
Maxime's expression crumpled. He reached for my hand, squeezed it gently. "Okay. Okay, we don't have to talk about it. But Elena—" He waited until I looked at him. "She's wrong. You know that, right? Everything she said, it's all bullshit. You're talented and hardworking and you deserve to be here."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him so badly. But all I could think about was the look on Uncle Étienne's face at breakfast, the disappointment I'd seen there. All I could think about was Annabelle's words—charity case, spoiled princess, mediocre at best.