Chapter 43
Elena
After the training was over, Maxim invited me to have dinner together. I accepted his invitation.
The car slowed as we turned onto a quieter street, and I realized we weren't heading toward any of the student restaurants in the Marais. Maxime had taken us somewhere more upscale.
"Where are we going exactly?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
"A place my friends love," Maxime said, flashing me that easy smile. "You'll like it, I promise."
"Your friends?" The word sent a jolt of alarm through me. "I thought you said it would just be the two of us?"
His hand found mine on the center console. "I know, but where's the fun in that? You've been in Paris for months and you barely know anyone outside of training. I wanted you to meet everyone properly."
Before I could protest, we were pulling up to a restaurant with a discreet brass plaque and a valet waiting. Maxime opened my door with a theatrical flourish, and we walked through an entrance that led to a private corridor.
"Maxime," I started, but he was already pushing open a heavy wooden door, and suddenly we were standing in a private dining room where seven or eight people were gathered around a long table, and someone pulled a party popper and colorful streamers exploded over my head while the group erupted in cheers.
I froze, my smile fixed in place. This wasn't a quiet dinner for two—this was some kind of celebration. Maxime's hand was on my back, guiding me forward as faces turned toward us.
"Surprise!" someone called out.
"Wait," I managed, turning to Maxime. "I thought you said it would just be the two of us?"
Maxime's grin was unrepentant. "I know, I know, but come on—you need to get out more! Meet people, have fun. I wanted them to see how amazing you are."
The words should have been flattering, but instead they landed like stones in my chest. I'd agreed to dinner—a quiet dinner where I could control the environment, manage my energy. This was something entirely different, and the realization that Maxime had orchestrated it without asking made something twist in my stomach.
But everyone was watching now, their faces bright with expectation, and I couldn't exactly turn around and leave. So I let Maxime pull me further into the room, accepting hugs and cheek kisses from people whose names I struggled to remember, feeling the familiar weight of performance settling over my shoulders.
"Elena!" A girl with auburn hair grabbed my hands, bouncing slightly. "Oh my God, I can't believe I'm finally meeting you! I'm Emma—I've been following your Instagram forever. When Maxime told us he was dating you, I literally screamed."
"That's... very kind," I said, trying to match her energy even though it felt like wading through water.
"Kind? Are you kidding? You're incredible! That routine you posted last month—the one with the ribbon—I must have watched it like fifty times." Emma was still holding my hands. "I actually did rhythmic gymnastics when I was younger, but I was nowhere near your level."
The irony wasn't lost on me. Nothing about today had felt effortless—not the disastrous training session, not the whispered insults, not my throbbing ankle. But I smiled and thanked her, because that's what you did in these situations.
Maxime guided me to a seat near the head of the table. A server appeared with a wine list, and Maxime ordered without consulting me, his hand finding my knee under the table in what I supposed was meant to be reassuring but instead felt suffocating.
The conversation flowed around me in rapid French peppered with slang and inside jokes I didn't quite catch, references to parties I hadn't attended and people I'd never met. I tried to follow along, but it felt like trying to join a dance already in progress—everyone else knew the steps, and I was just stumbling along.
"So Maxime says you're training for the Olympics?" This came from a guy named Thomas. "That must be intense. What's your typical day like?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but Emma cut in. "Oh, I read an interview where you talked about that! You train like eight hours a day, right? And you have to maintain this super strict diet?"
"It varies," I managed, "but yes, training takes up most of my time, and nutrition is important for—"
"I could never do that," another girl chimed in. "I'd die if I couldn't eat bread."
"Elena probably doesn't eat bread at all," Thomas said with a laugh. "Athletes like her have to be so careful about everything. It's like living in a cage, isn't it?"
The word "cage" hit harder than he probably intended. "It's not a cage," I said, more defensive than I'd meant. "It's discipline. There's a difference."
"Of course, of course," Thomas backtracked quickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant the restrictions. The constant monitoring. It seems like a lot of pressure."
"It is a lot of pressure," I admitted. "But it's also what I love. The structure, the goals, the feeling of pushing yourself to be better—" I stopped, aware that I was talking too much, revealing too much to strangers.
The server returned with appetizers I hadn't ordered—foie gras and salmon tartare—and I stared at them with a sinking feeling, mentally calculating the fat content while everyone else dug in.
"Is something wrong?" Maxime asked quietly.
"I can't eat this," I said, keeping my voice low. "It's too rich. The fat content alone—"
"Oh shit, I forgot to tell them about your dietary restrictions." Maxime looked genuinely apologetic, flagging down a server. "Hey, sorry, we need something different for my girlfriend here. She's an athlete, so she needs—what was it you told me? Low-fat, low-sodium?"
The server nodded patiently while I felt heat crawling up my neck, aware of everyone's attention turning back to us.
"Could we get some steamed vegetables, grilled chicken breast—no butter, no oil—and maybe some quinoa or brown rice?" Maxime was still talking. "And make sure the chicken is weighed—she needs exact portions for her training program."
"Of course, monsieur." The server gathered up my untouched appetizer and disappeared, leaving me sitting there feeling like a child being catered to at the adults' table.
"You didn't have to make such a big deal about it," I murmured to Maxime.
"What do you mean? I'm making sure you get what you need." He seemed genuinely confused, and I realized he really didn't understand—didn't see how different this was from the way Uncle Étienne handled things, quietly and precisely, without fanfare or attention.
When Uncle Étienne ordered my meals, every ingredient was measured to the gram, every preparation method specified in advance, the entire process handled so smoothly that I barely had to think about it. He knew my macronutrient ratios better than I did, could calculate my caloric needs based on that day's training intensity. It wasn't just about getting food that fit my diet—it was about being understood so completely that the care itself became invisible.
"It's fine," I said. "Thank you for taking care of it."