Chapter 68
Elena
Now, sitting on my bedroom floor, I pulled my knees tighter to my chest. The house was quiet, but I could feel Étienne's presence two doors down, could imagine him in his study with that whisky he thought I didn't know about.
I thought about knocking again. Thought about walking back down that hallway, pushing open his door, demanding answers to questions I was too afraid to ask. What did it mean, the way he looked at me sometimes? What did it mean that I'd spent my entire evening with my boyfriend wishing I was with someone else?
My phone buzzed—a text from Maxime. Sleep well. Sorry if I was weird tonight. Love you.
Love you. Two words I couldn't say back, couldn't even type, because they felt like a betrayal of something I didn't have the courage to name.
I set the phone down without responding and stayed there on the floor, listening to the house settle, wondering if Étienne was lying awake too, if he was thinking about me the way I couldn't stop thinking about him.
The silk robe was cold against my skin now, but I didn't move. Instead, I sat in the dark and let myself want what I couldn't have, just for a moment, just until morning came and I'd have to pretend again that everything was fine.
Just until morning, when I'd have to forget that the only time I'd felt truly alive tonight was when Étienne's hand had been on my shoulder, and I'd leaned into him like coming home.
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Étienne
Saturday afternoon found me in the garden with my mother, who was pruning her roses with the focused precision she brought to everything. I'd been standing there for three minutes, trying to find the right words for a conversation I didn't want to have.
"Are you going to hover all afternoon, or is there something you'd like to say?" She didn't look up from the cream-colored bloom she was examining.
I settled onto the stone bench nearby, my right leg grateful for the rest. "Elena and Maxime are seeing each other."
The secateurs clicked. A damaged petal fell to the ground. "I know."
That caught me off guard. "You know?"
"I have eyes, Étienne." She moved to the next bush. "You came to tell me this because...?"
"I wanted you to be aware. If their relationship progresses, I'd prefer you not interfere."
Now she did look at me, one eyebrow rising. "They're dating, not getting engaged. Why would I interfere?"
Because you interfered in everything, I wanted to say. Because this house operated on your approval, and Elena was too aware of that fact. But I kept my voice neutral. "I simply wanted to make our position clear."
"Our position." She turned back to her roses, and I could see the slight curve of her mouth. "You're twenty-nine years old, Étienne. Perhaps it's time you focused on your own romantic life instead of your ward's."
I didn't respond. Couldn't, really, not without revealing more than I intended.
"Elena grew up with her mother," she continued. "She doesn't understand the complexities of our family dynamics. The old tensions between myself and Corinne, for instance."
"Which is exactly why I'm asking you to be clear about your stance. So she doesn't have to navigate those complexities blindly."
My mother set down her secateurs and faced me fully. "Very well. I'll find an opportunity to speak with her. Make it clear that I have no objection to her relationship with Maxime." She paused, studying my face. "You seem quite invested in ensuring she feels comfortable pursuing this relationship."
"She's my responsibility."
"Yes." The word hung in the air between us, weighted with unspoken implications. "Your responsibility."
I stood, suddenly needing to be anywhere but under that knowing stare. "Thank you for understanding."
"Étienne." Her voice stopped me halfway across the garden path. I turned back to find her watching me with something that might have been sympathy. "The person who seems unhappy about this situation isn't Elena."
My jaw tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" She picked up her secateurs again, returning to her roses as if she hadn't just seen straight through five years of careful pretense. "I'll speak with Elena. But perhaps you should examine why her happiness with someone else troubles you so much."
I walked away without answering, because what could I say? That she was right? That watching Elena drive away with Maxime last night had felt like swallowing broken glass? That I'd spent the morning checking my phone for messages that never came, listening for her footsteps in the hallway? That I'd stood outside her bedroom door at seven this morning, hand raised to knock, before forcing myself to walk away because I had no right, no claim, no reason except that I needed to see her?
My mother knew. Perhaps she'd always known, had been waiting for me to admit it to myself.
The realization should have terrified me, but mostly I just felt tired—exhausted by the constant vigilance, the weight of wanting something I couldn't have and pretending I didn't want it at all.
I returned to my study, closed the door, and stood at the window. Below, my mother had returned to her pruning, methodical and precise, cutting away what was damaged to let the healthy parts flourish.
If only human hearts were so easily tended.
And somewhere in this house, Elena was probably waking up, probably checking her phone for messages from Maxime, probably getting ready to spend another day pretending we were nothing more than guardian and ward while the truth of what we were pressed against every interaction like a bruise that wouldn't heal.
I picked up my phone, opened our message thread, stared at her last text: Good morning. Training at 9. Will you be home for dinner?
Simple. Domestic. The kind of message that shouldn't make my chest ache.
I typed and deleted three different responses before finally settling on: I'll be home. Drive safely.
It wasn't what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was: Don't go to him. Stay here. Let me be enough. But those words had no place in our carefully maintained fiction.
So I sent the safe response, the appropriate response, and tried not to think about how many more of these I could endure before something broke.