Chapter 72
Étienne
I stood at the second-floor study window and watched Maxime's car pull away from the front gate. The taillights disappeared around the corner, and I remained there, far enough back that no one could see me from below, watching the empty street long after there was anything left to watch.
My right hand had formed a fist against the window frame. The pressure was almost welcome—something I could control, unlike the hollow feeling spreading through my chest. The evening light was fading, casting long shadows across the courtyard, and the emptiness inside me expanded to fill the silence.
The knock came sharp and sudden, pulling me back. I forced my fingers open—they trembled slightly, the way they used to after a demanding qualifying lap—and arranged my face into something neutral before turning from the window.
"Entrez."
Elena appeared in the doorway with something wrapped in silver paper and a red silk ribbon, her expression carefully bright. She'd changed from whatever she'd been wearing earlier—now in a cream sweater and dark trousers, her hair pulled back loosely, still slightly damp at the ends.
"Am I interrupting?"
"No. Come in."
She crossed to my desk and set the package down with care, the kind of deliberate gentleness that meant whatever was inside mattered to her. "I wanted to give you this. I've been meaning to for a while."
I looked at the silver paper, the red ribbon tied in a bow that had clearly taken her several attempts to get right, given the slight asymmetry in the loops. "What's the occasion?"
"Your acquisition last month. The Devereux merger." She shifted her weight—pleased with herself but trying not to show it. "I only just heard about it from Isabelle. I know it closed in September, but—congratulations, Uncle."
Eighteen months of planning, three countries worth of conference rooms, and I'd been too exhausted when it closed to feel anything but relief. She'd noticed anyway.
"Thank you. That's thoughtful."
"Open it." She came around to my side of the desk, close enough that I could smell jasmine—her shampoo, the scent I'd come to associate with her presence in this house. "I want to see if you like it."
I pulled at the ribbon. The bow collapsed into a hopeless tangle. My fingers—steady enough to sign multimillion-euro contracts—couldn't manage a simple knot. Elena made a sound that might have been amusement.
"You're terrible at that."
"At what?"
"Opening presents." She reached over, working through the knots I'd created. "Has no one ever given you a gift before?"
I thought of birthdays in this house, gifts pre-opened by staff, everything catalogued and approved before it ever reached my hands. "Not recently."
She helped me with the paper, her hands guiding mine. When the wrapping came away, I found a black Montblanc case. Inside: a Meisterstück 149, deep black resin gleaming under the study lights. The cap bore an engraving.
E.B. – Précision
I ran my thumb over it. Not success, not excellence—precision. The word race engineers used for the exact moment to release the brake and trust the car to hold the line.
"Do you like it?" Her voice had gone quieter.
"It's perfect. How did you know to choose that?"
Her face brightened. "The woman at the store suggested 'Success' or 'Excellence,' but those felt generic. You're always so exact about everything—the way you work, plan things, even talk. Like you measure every word, every decision. So precision seemed right."
Something tightened in my chest. She'd seen me clearly. "Thank you. This is very meaningful."
"I'm glad." She smiled, and for a moment the careful distance between us felt less important than the simple fact that she'd given me something that proved she understood me. "I also wanted to tell you about training today. I landed the three-and-a-half rotation throw. Three times in a row, clean catches, no wobble. Michel said it was the best he's seen me do it."
"That's significant." Three clean landings meant consistency, reproducibility. "How long have you been working on it?"
"Since February. It's always been technically correct but never quite controlled—the catch was always a fraction of a second off, and that fraction makes all the difference in scoring. But today I finally got the timing right."
I watched her hands gesture, tracing trajectories in the air. This version of Elena—unguarded, enthusiastic about her work—was the most dangerous to watch. It made me forget why I needed distance.
"What gives you an advantage?"
"Speed and height." Immediate, like she'd analyzed every angle. "Most gymnasts my height struggle to generate enough power on the release, so they compensate by reducing rotations or adjusting the catch angle. But I've always had good explosive strength, so I can get the height without sacrificing speed. Extra half-rotation, still time for a clean catch."
"And the risk?"
"If I'm even slightly off on the release angle, everything falls apart. Ribbon tangles, lose track of rotations, catch timing wrong, execution deductions." She paused. "High-risk, high-reward. Nail it, it's worth a lot. Miss it, it's catastrophic."
"But you're going to nail it."
"I'm going to try. Michel thinks I have a real shot at the podium this season if I keep consistency up. The Federation is watching, and if I place well in the qualifiers, I'll have a strong position for Olympic selection."
The Olympics. Hearing her say it so plainly—the confidence in her voice—made something tighten in my chest. She was extraordinary. Soon she wouldn't need me at all.
"You'll make it. You're that good."
She looked at me for a long moment. "Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."
I should have left it there. "You should try the pen. Make sure it works."
"Yes! You need to fill it first. Do you have ink?"
"I don't know how to fill it."
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
She shook her head but reached for the pen. "Do you have ink?"
I gestured at the drawer. She extracted the bottle and began filling the pen with focused efficiency. She bent closer to inspect the nib, and a strand of hair fell forward. If I'd shifted slightly, it would have brushed my hand.
I was staring at her face. The way her eyebrows drew together when she concentrated, the small movements of her lips as she tested the ink flow, the way the evening light caught her jaw.
I was sick. That was the only explanation—for the way my chest tightened when she leaned close, for the way I wanted to tuck that strand of hair behind her ear, for the way I couldn't look away.
"There. Perfect flow. Try it."
Our fingers touched when I took the pen. Just the briefest contact—her skin warm—and I felt it like an electric current. Her eyes met mine for a moment before she stepped back.
I wrote: Merci pour le cadeau. The nib moved smoothly, ink flowing in clean lines.
"It's an excellent pen."
"Good. I should let you get back to work."
She was moving toward the door when I said, "Elena. Wait."
She stopped. "Yes?"
"How long have you known Maxime?"