Chapter 77
Elena
"Sometimes it feels like you're the only person who really understands me, who knows what I need before I do. And that's—" I broke off. "That's not a bad thing, is it?"
"No. But it can become a problem if that trust turns into dependence. If you start making decisions based on what I think rather than what you think." He shifted slightly. "You're allowed to disagree with me, Elena. You're allowed to make choices I wouldn't make. That's part of growing up. You were raised to be pampered, to be cherished—there's nothing wrong with that. You don't need to apologize for who you are or shrink yourself to fit someone else's expectations."
"What if I don't want to grow up?" The words came out raw, honest. "What if I like depending on you? What if I don't want things to change?"
The silence felt heavy, and I saw Étienne's hand curl into a fist on the bench, saw the tension in his shoulders.
"Things always change," he said finally, his voice rougher than usual. "That's not something either of us can stop."
I wanted to ask what he meant, but before I could, he stood abruptly, putting distance between us.
"It's late. You should get some rest. You have training tomorrow."
"Étienne—"
"I'll see you at breakfast."
He walked away, and I sat there alone, holding his handkerchief and trying to understand what had just happened, what I'd said that made him retreat so suddenly.
But deep down, I knew. I'd pushed too hard, had come too close to admitting something neither of us could acknowledge.
I looked down at the handkerchief, at the monogram embroidered in one corner—E.B.—and thought about the pen, about the way he'd worn it all evening.
Baby, he'd called me. Like he had the right to claim me.
And I'd liked it more than I should have.
Eventually I went back inside. The first floor was quiet now, the staff clearing away the last of the dinner service. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, where most of the rooms were dark except for the study where a single light still burned.
---
Sunday morning, I woke to seventeen more messages from Maxime. I sat on the edge of my bed and scrolled through them, watching the progression from apologetic to desperate to almost angry and back to apologetic.
I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have pushed so hard.
I just want to understand. Can we talk?
Please don't shut me out.
The pen thing—I get it. I was jealous. That wasn't fair.
I shouldn't have said those things about you being spoiled. You're not. I was just angry.
Baby, please. Just tell me what you're thinking.
I set the phone down and pressed my palms against my eyes. Part of me wanted to call him back, to reassure him that everything was fine. But I knew that would be a lie.
Because we weren't fine. We hadn't been fine for a while now.
I thought about what Étienne had said last night—You need to decide what you actually want—and realized I'd been avoiding that question for months, letting myself drift along in this relationship because it was easier than examining why I felt so hollow every time Maxime kissed me.
I'll deal with it after training, I told myself. After I've had time to think.
It was a coward's choice, but I made it anyway.
I showered, dressed, and went downstairs to find only Isabelle up, sitting in the breakfast room with her coffee and the Sunday papers.
"Good morning, darling. You look tired."
"Didn't sleep well."
"I'm not surprised. These family dinners can be exhausting." She gestured to the chair beside her. "Sit. Have some coffee."
I poured myself a cup and settled in. For a few minutes we sat in silence, Isabelle reading while I stared out the window at the garden, at the bench where I'd sat with Étienne last night.
"Maxime seems like a good boy," Isabelle said suddenly. "But I noticed he seemed rather tense last night. Is everything all right?"
"It's fine. We just had a disagreement. Nothing serious."
"About Étienne?"
I looked up sharply, and she smiled—knowing, sympathetic.
"It's all right, darling. I'm not blind. I've seen the way Maxime looks at my son when you're in the room. Like he's trying to figure out how to compete with someone who's already won." She set down her coffee cup. "The question is, does Étienne know he's won?"
"Isabelle—"
"I'm not judging. I'm just observing. And what I observe is that you're caught between two men—one who makes you feel safe and understood, and one who makes you feel normal. And you're trying to convince yourself you can have both."
My throat felt tight. "I'm not choosing anything. Maxime is my boyfriend. Étienne is my guardian. They're completely different."
"Are they? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've already made your choice. You just haven't admitted it yet."
I wanted to argue, but the words wouldn't come.
"I don't know what to do," I whispered.
Isabelle reached over and covered my hand with hers.
"Then don't do anything yet. Give yourself time. But Elena—whatever you decide, make sure it's what you want. Not what Maxime wants, not what Étienne needs. Your happiness matters more than any of our opinions."
I nodded, blinking back tears, and squeezed her hand before standing.
"I should go. Michel will kill me if I'm late."
"Of course. But Elena—be kind to yourself. You're twenty years old, you're navigating an impossible situation, and you're doing the best you can."
I managed a watery smile and left, grabbing my training bag from my room. When I came back downstairs, Jean-Claude was already waiting by the car.
The drive to the training center was quiet. I pulled out my phone to respond to Maxime's messages, but when I saw all those texts lined up—apologies and explanations and desperate pleas—I felt something twist in my chest.
So I typed something brief—I'm okay. Just need some time to think. Talk later—and hit send.
Then I turned off my phone, shoved it into my bag, and spent the rest of the drive staring out the window, trying very hard not to think about anything at all.