Chapter 63
Étienne
"It doesn't matter what I want," I said finally. "She deserves better than a man who's spent five years in a position of authority over her. She deserves someone like Maxime—young, uncomplicated."
"Does she?" Rémi's eyebrow arched. "Because from what I've observed, the young lady looks at you like you hung the moon, while she looks at your nephew like a pleasant acquaintance she's trying to convince herself she has feelings for."
Before I could respond, Sébastien emerged from the house, making his way toward us. "Gentlemen. I see we're all engaged in the evening's primary entertainment—watching Étienne pretend he's not watching his ward like a hawk."
"Subtle as always, Sébastien," Rémi murmured.
"Subtlety is overrated." Sébastien sipped his drink, then turned to me. "So when are you planning to stop the charade and admit you're completely besotted?"
"I'm not—"
"Please. I've known you since we were twenty. I watched you walk away from racing without complaint, watched you build an empire with the same precision you used for lap times. But her?" He gestured toward Elena. "You look at her like she's the only thing that matters."
The accuracy made it impossible to maintain my denials. "Even if what you're suggesting were true, it would be irrelevant. She's twenty. I'm her guardian. The power imbalance alone makes any romantic feeling inappropriate."
"The little lady looks at you with nothing but respect," Rémi observed thoughtfully. "Respect and trust and admiration—but no, there's not that flavor of romantic longing. At least, not that I can see."
Something in my chest twisted, though whether it was relief or disappointment I couldn't say.
Rémi pulled out his phone, glancing at it before tucking it away. "I should go—my wife is waiting. But before I leave, let me say this: I'm married now. I have experience with love. And I'm telling you—as your friend—you're not doing either of you any favors by pretending this doesn't exist."
He clapped my shoulder, the gesture carrying weight. "They all think highly of you. Your friends. We see what you're doing to yourself. But sometimes nobility is just another word for cowardice."
He left, Sébastien drifting away shortly after, and I was left alone, watching Elena play with children who would never understand the complexity they'd created simply by calling her over.
She was laughing now, her head thrown back, her whole body relaxed. This was what she could be without the weight of expectation. This was the Elena beneath the armor, and I wanted—
God, I wanted so many things I had no right to want.
---
The dinner bell rang, summoning guests toward the formal dining room. I made my way inside, accepting congratulations and small talk, but my attention remained fractured, always tracking Elena's location.
She entered with one of the children still attached to her hand, gently disentangled herself and sent the child back with a smile. Then she turned, scanning the room, and her eyes found mine with unerring accuracy.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other. I saw uncertainty in her expression, a question she didn't know how to ask. Then she looked away, her cheeks coloring, and made her way toward her seat.
Which was directly beside mine.
My mother's doing, undoubtedly.
I rose as Elena approached, pulling out her chair. She murmured thanks as she sat, and I caught the scent of her perfume—something light and floral I'd helped her select months ago when she'd been overwhelmed by options.
"Are you alright?" Elena's voice was quiet, pitched for my ears alone as I settled into my chair. "You seem tense."
"I'm fine. Just tired. It's been a long day."
She didn't look convinced but didn't push, instead turning her attention to the place setting. I watched as she carefully tucked the voluminous skirt of her dress under the table's edge with precise movements.
I pulled the handkerchief from my jacket pocket and offered it to her. "For your hands. In case you need it."
She took it, her fingers brushing mine in a contact that lasted perhaps half a second but sent electricity up my arm. "Thank you," she said softly, not meeting my eyes.
The first course arrived. I found myself hyper-aware of every movement Elena made. The way she picked up her fork, the slight hesitation before reaching for bread, the careful deliberation with which she approached each element.
"The scallops are quite good," I said, then immediately felt foolish.
"They look beautiful," she agreed. "Though—" She paused. "Is there a lot of butter in the sauce? I'm trying to be careful—"
"The chef used a citrus reduction instead," I interrupted gently. "I spoke with him earlier about your dietary requirements. The entire menu tonight has been adjusted."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, gratitude, that complicated mix of emotions. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." I returned my attention to my plate, unable to look at her while admitting, "I wanted to."
The words hung between us, heavier than they should have been. Beside me, Elena went very still.
Before either of us could say anything else, a loud crash shattered the dinner conversation. The champagne tower on the terrace had collapsed, sending crystal glasses cascading across stone in an explosion of shattering glass and spilled champagne.
The sound was tremendous, sharp and violent and utterly unexpected. Elena flinched violently beside me, her fork clattering against her plate as her hands flew up, her whole body going rigid.
My arm moved before I'd consciously decided, reaching out to curve around her shoulders, pulling her slightly toward me in pure protective instinct. My palm pressed against the bare skin of her shoulder blade where the dress's back dipped low, and I felt the heat of her skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse, the fine tremor running through her.
"It's alright," I murmured, pitched low enough that only she could hear. "Just glasses. Nothing to worry about."
But even as I said it, I realized what I'd done. My hand was resting against her bare skin with no barrier between us, and I could feel everything—the warmth, the smoothness, the way she was trembling slightly, the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
I should pull away. Every rule of appropriate guardian behavior demanded it. But I couldn't make myself do it. My palm seemed fused to her skin, and all I could think was how right this felt, how perfectly she fit against my side.
Elena's head had turned slightly toward me, her face close enough that I could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat, could catch the faint scent of her perfume, could see the way her lips had parted slightly.
"Pas de mal, bonne chance," my uncle's voice came from across the table, warm with amusement. No harm done, it's good luck. The traditional French response to breaking glass, offered with gentle humor that defused tension while acknowledging what he'd witnessed.
The words broke the spell. I forced myself to drop my arm, to pull back, to create appropriate distance even though every instinct screamed at me to keep holding her.
Elena's eyes met mine for just a moment, wide and uncertain and filled with questions I couldn't answer, before she looked away, her cheeks flushed.
My hand still tingled where it had touched her skin, the sensation burning like a brand, and I knew—with the kind of certainty that came from years of reading data and making split-second decisions—that I'd just crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
Not in action, perhaps. Not in any way outside observers would recognize as inappropriate. But in my own awareness, in the way my body had responded, in the desperate reluctance with which I'd forced myself to pull away—in all of that, I'd crossed a line I'd been trying to avoid for five years.
And God help me, I wanted to cross it again.