Chapter 50
Étienne
"Thank you for driving me, Uncle Étienne," Elena said from the passenger seat, her accent softening the French vowels as she stroked Puff's head through the carrier mesh. "I know you're busy with the transition."
I kept my eyes on the road, navigating the evening traffic through Saint-Germain. "You needed a restroom. Sébastien's place is private."
What I didn't say: bringing her anywhere public meant crowds, noise, cameras—all the things I'd spent five years systematically eliminating from her life. The tea house, with its members-only policy and discreet entrance, was the obvious choice.
She'd changed into a black knit dress before we left. The fabric clung to her shoulders in a way that made me grip the steering wheel harder than necessary.
When we arrived, I pulled into the courtyard behind the building. Rémi's Mercedes sat alone in the space, its black surface reflecting the iron lanterns. I helped Elena with the carrier, my hand moving automatically to the small of her back as we crossed the cobblestones—a gesture I regretted the instant I felt the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric.
"Go ahead," I said, nodding toward the entrance. "I'll wait here."
She disappeared inside with Puff. I leaned against the car and pulled out my phone, reviewing Rémi's latest briefing documents. The promotion announcement would go public in three days. The board's message was clear: stability, continuity, traditional values. My mother's voice echoed: A man in your position needs a wife, Étienne. Someone appropriate.
"Still hiding in courtyards, I see."
Sébastien emerged from the side garden, Rémi behind him. Sébastien wore his usual smirk. Rémi's expression was neutral, but I caught the assessing look as he took in my posture, the phone, the tension I couldn't quite hide.
"I'm not hiding," I said evenly. "I'm waiting."
"Mmm. Waiting." Sébastien leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. He dropped his voice into an exaggerated version of mine: "I need to review these materials. You should go inside. It's getting cool."
Rémi made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
I shot them both a look that had made junior executives reconsider their careers. "Don't you have customers to attend to?"
"Private reservations only tonight." Sébastien gestured toward the building. "Which is why you brought her here, isn't it? No crowds, no cameras, none of the thousand things you've catalogued as potential stressors."
I returned my attention to my phone. Sébastien wasn't finished.
"Come on. We're friends. Join us in the east wing while you wait. Unless you'd rather lurk out here like—"
"Fine." I pushed off the car, pocketing my phone. "Ten minutes. Then we're leaving."
The east wing was Sébastien's private domain—antique furniture, walls lined with rare teas. We settled around a low table where pu-erh was already steeping. The familiar ritual should have been calming. Instead, I felt hyperaware of the time, of Elena somewhere in the building, of my friends' attention.
"So," Rémi said once we'd each taken a cup. "The board meeting is Friday."
"Yes."
"Chairman Beaumont's recommendation carries significant weight. Two mentions of your name in his letter."
I nodded. My father's endorsement from his sickbed surprised no one who understood our family. He'd groomed me for this since I could read a balance sheet. His dying only accelerated a timeline we'd both always known.
"Once you're in the game, you don't leave as a loser," I said quietly. "What should be fought for must be fought for."
Sébastien raised an eyebrow. "Very philosophical. Does that apply to all areas of your life, or just business?"
I ignored the implication. "Elena's qualification trials are in three weeks. Michel's adjusted her training schedule for the ankle."
"Ah yes," Sébastien said, eyes glinting. "Your ward. How is the lovely Miss Petrova adjusting to Paris?"
"She's focused on training."
"I'm sure she is. And you're focused on... what, exactly? Making sure she eats precisely 1,847 calories per day? Monitoring her sleep schedule? Calculating the exact temperature of her ice baths?"
Rémi set down his cup carefully. "Sébastien."
But Sébastien leaned forward, smirk intact. "Come on, Étienne. We've known each other since university. I've watched you manage hostile takeovers with less intensity than you manage that girl's daily routine."
"She's not a girl. She's twenty years old, a competitive athlete with specific needs, and as her guardian—"
"Guardian." Sébastien repeated the word like it was foreign. "Is that what we're calling it?"
I set my cup down before I could crack it. "What exactly are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating the obvious." He glanced at Rémi, who was suddenly fascinated by his tea. "You can't tell me this is normal guardian behavior. The level of involvement, the attention to detail—"
"The way I what?"
"The way you look at her." Rémi's voice was quiet but firm. He met my eyes. "I've seen you in board meetings, negotiations, situations that would break most men. You're always in control, always three steps ahead. But when she's in the room..." He trailed off.
"She's family," I said, the words hollow. "She's my responsibility. Her relationship with the Beaumont family is complicated."
"Complicated how?" Sébastien asked.
I exhaled slowly. "Her father was my half-brother, Marc. Same father, different mother. Marc lived in Bulgaria, married locally—Elena's mother, Nadia. When Marc died in a car accident thirteen years ago, Elena was seven. Nadia was struggling, raising a child alone while coaching. My mother offered to help, brought Elena to France at 15 years old."
"And you stepped in as the dutiful younger brother," Rémi said.
"So she's your niece," Sébastien said. "Technically."
"Technically, she's several degrees removed from the main Beaumont line. My father's illegitimate son's daughter. In French society, that makes her..." I paused. "Peripheral. Connected, but not quite family."
"Except to you," Rémi observed.
I didn't answer. The truth was too complicated. Elena had arrived as a ghost of a child—enormous amber eyes, careful silence, moving through the mansion like she was afraid to disturb the air. I'd watched her transform: shy seven-year-old to determined athlete, uncertain teenager finding her voice. I'd been there for every milestone, every crisis, every triumph and failure.
And somewhere along the way, my protective instinct had evolved into something I couldn't name, couldn't acknowledge, couldn't afford to examine.
"She only seems close to you," Sébastien said. "I've seen her at family events. Polite to everyone else, but with you..." He gestured vaguely. "It's different. She orbits you. Looks to you first in any situation. And you—you track her like she's the only person in the room."
"That's ridiculous," I said without conviction.