Chapter 65
Étienne
The drive back stretched endless. Sébastien and Rémi had insisted on riding with me—"You're in no state to drive alone"—and now we sat in tense silence, the Mercedes interior lit only by dashboard glow.
I stared out at passing darkness, right hand pressed against my thigh where the old injury throbbed. The pain was almost welcome, a physical anchor against the worse ache spreading through my chest.
"So," Sébastien said eventually, "are we going to talk about what just happened, or pretend everything's fine while you slowly implode?"
"There's nothing to talk about. Elena is dating Maxime. I'm her guardian. The situation is exactly as it should be."
"Right. Which is why you looked like you were watching your own execution."
I didn't respond. What could I say? That he was right? That watching Elena's taillights disappear had felt like something vital being ripped from my chest?
"Actually," Sébastien continued, "she mentioned Maxime at the last family gathering. Did you know that?"
My head snapped toward him. "What?"
"Elena. She was talking to my wife about relationships. She said she wanted to try normal dating. Wanted to know what it was like to be with someone her own age, someone uncomplicated."
The words hit like a physical blow. My mind raced back through recent conversations, searching. And then I found it—that afternoon in my study, when Elena had asked about Maxime going public with their relationship. I'd told her to follow her heart. Told her she deserved someone who could give her everything I couldn't. I'd practically gift-wrapped her and handed her over to him with my blessing.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, pressing my palms against my eyes. "I did this. I pushed her toward him."
"Finally," Sébastien said with satisfaction.
"It doesn't matter." I dropped my hands. "Even if I'd handled it differently—even if I'd been honest—it wouldn't change the facts. I'm twenty-nine. She's twenty. I'm her legal guardian. The power dynamic alone makes any romantic relationship completely inappropriate."
"Does it?" Rémi's quiet voice cut through my rationalization. "Or is that just the excuse you're using because you're terrified?"
"It's not an excuse, it's reality—"
"You spent five years cultivating this garden," Rémi continued, calm but devastating. "Five years of careful attention, of being exactly what she needed. And now someone else is going to walk in and pick the flower you've been tending since it was barely a seedling."
The metaphor was crude, almost offensive, but its accuracy made me flinch.
"That's not—" I started, but Rémi cut me off.
"Don't pretend this is about propriety. You're in love with her. You know she feels something for you too. But instead of being honest about it, you're hiding behind your guardian role like it's some kind of moral shield. That's not nobility, Étienne. That's cowardice."
The accusation landed like a punch. Because he was right. I'd known—God help me, I'd known for months what was building between us. The way Elena looked at me sometimes, the careful distance she maintained as if afraid of what might happen if she got too close. The tension that crackled whenever we were alone together.
And instead of acknowledging it, I'd used my position as guardian to maintain the illusion of appropriate boundaries while secretly cataloging every detail of her life with the obsessive precision of a man who couldn't bear to miss a single moment.
"The age difference—" I tried again, but Sébastien interrupted.
"Nine years. That's nothing scandalous. My parents had a bigger gap than that."
"She's twenty—"
"She's an adult. A legal adult who can make her own choices about who she wants to be with." Rémi's voice remained measured, but there was steel underneath. "The only person treating her like a child right now is you. And you're doing it because it's easier than admitting what you actually want."
The car slowed as Sébastien pulled off the highway, taking a longer route through the city. I realized dimly that he was giving me time—time to process, time to break down, time to face what I'd been running from.
We merged onto the highway leading back toward Paris, the city lights still distant. My phone buzzed—the security system. Elena had arrived home.
Without thinking, I opened the app. The timestamp: 1:47 AM. Nearly three hours. Three hours alone with Maxime on some beach while I sat here imagining every possible scenario.
"Don't," Rémi said quietly, somehow knowing. "Don't torture yourself with speculation."
But I couldn't help it. My mind supplied images with vicious clarity: Elena's face tilted toward Maxime's in moonlight, his hands on her waist, her dress, the sound of waves drowning out whatever soft sounds she might make when he kissed her properly—
"I need to know she's safe," I said, voice rough. "I'm her guardian. It's my responsibility to—"
"To what?" Sébastien interrupted. "Monitor her whereabouts at 2 AM? Track her movements like she's a prisoner? Come on, Étienne. We all know this isn't about guardian duties anymore."
He was right. God help me, he was right. But admitting it—saying out loud that I'd crossed that line—felt like opening a door I could never close.
Sébastien drove slowly through empty streets, taking detours I didn't question. At one point he pulled over near the Seine, letting the engine idle while I sat motionless, staring at the dark water. Neither he nor Rémi spoke. They just waited, giving me space to fall apart without an audience.
By the time we finally pulled up to the house, the dashboard clock showed 2:34 AM. I climbed out, leg screaming, body feeling wrung out, pushed past every reasonable limit.
"Get some sleep," Rémi said. "And Étienne? Think about what we said. Really think. Because this—" he gestured at me, at my obvious misery, "—isn't sustainable. For either of you."
I nodded without speaking and let myself inside. The grandfather clock confirmed the time. Upstairs, a sliver of light under Elena's door.
She was awake.
I stood frozen, staring at that line of light, heart hammering. Every instinct screamed to go up there, knock, ask if she was alright, demand to know what happened with Maxime, pull her into my arms and finally stop pretending—
"Pierre," I said to the butler who'd appeared, "when Miss Elena came in, did she seem alright?"
Pierre's expression remained professionally neutral, but something in his eyes suggested he understood what I was really asking. "She went directly to her room, sir. She seemed... thoughtful."
Thoughtful. What did that mean? Thoughtful because Maxime had kissed her properly? Thoughtful because she was falling for him?
"Thank you, Pierre. Please inform me when Miss Elena comes down for breakfast."
"Of course, sir."
I climbed the stairs slowly, each step an exercise in self-control as I passed Elena's door. The light was still on. I could hear soft movement inside—she was definitely awake. It would be so easy to knock, to use some excuse about confirming she'd gotten home safely—
I continued past to my study, locked the door, and went straight to the liquor cabinet.