Chapter 51
Étienne
"Is it?" Rémi's expression was gentle but unyielding. "Étienne, I've known you since we were teenagers. I've never seen you like this with anyone. The level of care, the attention—it goes beyond duty. Beyond even affection. It's..." He searched for the word. "Devotion."
Something cold settled in my chest. "You're reading too much—"
"Am I? Tell me honestly: when was the last time you went a full day without thinking about her? Without checking in, monitoring her schedule, making sure she had everything she needed?"
I couldn't answer. The silence stretched.
Sébastien leaned back, his smirk softening. "Look, I'm not judging. We've all done stupid things for people we care about. But this—this is something else. And I think you know it."
Puff's high-pitched bark echoed from the main hall, followed by Elena's voice calling my name. The sound—clear, slightly accented, looking for me—made my pulse spike in a way that proved Rémi's point more effectively than any argument.
I stood, straightening my jacket. "We should go."
"Of course," Sébastien said, smirk returning. "Can't keep the future lady of the house waiting."
I shot him a warning look. He just grinned. Rémi stood, more serious.
"Étienne," he said quietly, stopping me at the door. "Whatever this is, whatever you're feeling—be careful. For both your sakes."
I nodded once, then left to find Elena.
She was waiting in the main hall with Puff's carrier, looking around appreciatively. I watched her take it in, saw her shoulders relax in the quiet space.
"This place is beautiful," she said when she noticed me. "So peaceful."
"Sébastien specializes in privacy." I took the carrier, our fingers brushing briefly. "Members-only. Very discreet."
"Are you a member?"
I thought about the countless hours here—business meetings over rare teas, quiet conversations when I needed to escape family demands. "I was."
"Was?"
"From tonight, I think I'm no longer qualified." I gestured toward the door. "Shall we?"
She fell into step beside me. I was acutely aware of her presence—the scent of her shampoo, her breathing, the way she moved with unconscious grace. As we crossed the courtyard, Sébastien's words echoed: She orbits you. You track her like she's the only person in the room.
He wasn't wrong. That was precisely the problem.
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## Maxime
I arrived at the tea house at 8:47 PM, the autumn evening already dark. Rémi had texted suggesting I join them, but as I pulled my Porsche into the courtyard, I immediately regretted it.
Two figures emerged from the building's entrance, silhouetted against the warm interior light. Even from a distance, I recognized my uncle's posture—military precision, shoulders squared, every movement controlled. But it was the second figure that made my jaw tighten.
Elena.
She wore a black knit dress, fabric clinging to her frame. Her hair was loose, catching glints of gold when she turned her head. My uncle carried a pet carrier—that ridiculous dog she'd adopted—and as I watched, he shifted it to one hand, his other hovering near the small of her back as they descended the steps.
Their movements were synchronized, steps matching naturally, creating an invisible bubble that excluded the world. When Elena looked up at him, the softness in her expression made something twist in my chest.
This was wrong.
I'd known Uncle Étienne my entire life. My mother's cousin, though we'd always been more like uncle and nephew. I'd grown up in his shadow—the brilliant, controlled, impossibly competent Étienne Beaumont, who negotiated multi-million euro deals before breakfast and never showed a crack. He was the standard we were all measured against. Most of us fell short.
But I'd never seen him like this. Never seen him hover the way he hovered around Elena. Never seen that intensity when he looked at her—like she was an equation he couldn't solve, a problem requiring his complete attention.
And Elena... God, she looked at him like he hung the moon.
I pulled out my phone: Are you out? Want to grab a late dinner?
I watched them move toward the black Mercedes parked near the entrance, then turned to the staff member who'd appeared beside my car.
"Good evening, Monsieur Delacroix," he said with a bow. "Monsieur Dubois is expecting you."
"That was Monsieur Beaumont just now, wasn't it? With the young woman?"
"Yes, sir. Monsieur Étienne Beaumont. They arrived about twenty minutes ago—just finishing up now."
Twenty minutes. They'd been here twenty minutes, in this private space, while I'd been across the city thinking about Elena, wondering what she was doing, hoping she might text back.
I climbed out, my regret transforming into something darker. This needed to stop. Whatever was happening between my uncle and Elena—whatever complicated dynamic they'd developed—it was preventing her from moving forward. With me.
My phone buzzed with Elena's reply: Just out walking Puff. Tired from training. Rain check?
I stared at the message, watching the Mercedes pull away into the night. Walking Puff. That was her story. Not "I'm at a tea house with your uncle," but a casual lie that suggested she either didn't want me to know, or didn't think it mattered.
The thought that she might not think it mattered—that time alone with Uncle Étienne was so normal it didn't warrant mentioning—was somehow worse.
I typed back: Tomorrow for lunch? I want to see you.
I pocketed my phone and headed inside, already working through the conversation I needed to have with Rémi about this situation. This couldn't continue. Elena deserved better than being trapped in some weird pseudo-relationship with her guardian, and I deserved better than competing with a man who'd known her since childhood.
But as I climbed the steps, that last glimpse lingered—Elena's face tilted up toward my uncle, laughing at something he'd said, the easy intimacy in that simple moment making my chest tighten with an emotion I didn't want to name.