Chapter 53
Elena
"Why what, Elena?" His voice was very quiet, very controlled.
I shook my head, stepping out. "Nothing. Never mind. I should check on Puff, make sure she has water."
I hurried down the hall before he could respond, before I could say something I couldn't take back. Behind me, I heard the elevator doors close, and I wondered if he was relieved or disappointed that I'd retreated.
In my room, I set Puff's carrier down and sank onto my bed. My phone buzzed. Maxime's name: Tomorrow for lunch? I want to see you.
I stared at the message, thinking about my uncle's advice to focus on people who already saw my worth. Maxime saw something in me, wanted to spend time with me, made his interest clear and uncomplicated. That should have felt good. That should have been exactly what I wanted.
So why was my first instinct to check my training schedule, looking for an excuse to delay?
I typed back: I have training until 4. Maybe dinner?
His reply came quickly: Perfect. I'll pick you up at 7.
I set the phone down and looked at Puff, who was investigating the corners of my room. "What do you think, Puff? Am I being an idiot?"
The dog looked up with bright eyes, then returned to her investigation. I took that as a yes.
Later, after showering and changing, I pulled out my phone again. This time I opened Instagram, scrolling through my feed. Looking for what? Distraction? Validation? Some sign that other people my age had their lives figured out?
Instead, I found myself on my uncle's profile—sparse, professional, mostly company news and charitable events. No personal photos, no glimpses into his private life. Exactly what I'd expected, yet somehow disappointing.
I drafted a post: Late night walks with the best companion. #PuffTheDog #ParisNights
But I didn't include photos of where we'd been, or who I'd been with. Some instinct said sharing those details would cross a line I wasn't ready to cross, would invite questions I couldn't answer.
I hit post and watched the likes accumulate—school friends, gymnastics fans, random followers. Maxime liked it within thirty seconds, adding a heart emoji. I smiled, appreciating his enthusiasm even as part of me wished he'd be less... obvious.
A knock on my door made me jump. "Yes?"
"It's me," my uncle's voice came through the wood. "May I come in?"
My heart rate spiked. "Of course."
He entered carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups, looking both formal and domestic in shirtsleeves and loosened tie. "I thought you might want chamomile. It's late, and you have training tomorrow."
"Thank you." I watched him set the tray on my desk, pouring with the same precise movements he brought to everything. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to." He handed me a cup, then settled in the chair by my window, cradling his own. "I've been thinking about your question. About talking to Annabelle."
I took a sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. "And?"
"I think you should approach it like a difficult routine. Break it down into manageable steps. First, decide what you want from the conversation—an apology, an explanation, just clearing the air. Then consider what you're willing to give in return. Finally, prepare for the possibility it won't go the way you hope."
It was such a characteristically Uncle Étienne response—logical, strategic, emotionally measured. Yet beneath the practical advice, I heard genuine concern.
"What if she refuses to talk to me?"
"Then you've lost nothing. You'll know you tried, and you can move forward without wondering 'what if.'" He paused, studying me over his cup. "But Elena, I want you to understand something. Your worth as an athlete, as a person, doesn't depend on Annabelle's opinion. Or anyone else's, for that matter."
"Not even yours?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "Especially not mine. I'm too close to be objective. I've watched you grow up, seen you overcome obstacles that would have broken most people. My opinion is hopelessly biased."
"Biased how?" I pressed, suddenly needing to understand.
He was quiet for a long moment, gaze fixed on his tea. When he finally spoke, his voice was very soft. "I think you're extraordinary, Elena. I always have. And watching you become who you are now—strong, dedicated, resilient—has been..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm proud of you. That's all I mean."
My throat felt tight. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just remember it when people like Annabelle try to make you doubt yourself." He stood, setting his empty cup on the tray. "Get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day."
He was almost to the door when I called out, "Uncle Étienne?"
He paused, turning back. "Yes?"
"I'm glad you're the one who's biased about me. I'd rather have your opinion than anyone else's."
The look he gave me was complex—pleased, pained, and something else I couldn't decipher. "Good night, Elena."
"Good night."
After he left, I sat there for a long time, holding my cooling tea. Thinking about bias, and worth, and the way my uncle's voice had sounded when he called me extraordinary. Thinking about the way he'd knelt beside me that afternoon, his hands on my leg, his breathing uneven. Thinking about all the unspoken things that seemed to hover between us, growing heavier with each passing day.
My phone buzzed—a voice message from Maxime: "Hey, beautiful. Just wanted to say I'm really looking forward to tomorrow night. Sleep well."
I listened twice, trying to feel the flutter of excitement that should have accompanied a message from an attractive guy who was clearly interested. But all I felt was vague guilt, like I was somehow betraying something by accepting his attention.
I recorded a response, keeping my voice light: "Me too. See you tomorrow."