Chapter 82: The Sun Only Rises Because of You
Seraphina's perspective
I had forgotten, in the flood of gifts and laughter and orchestral music, that I had made one last request before the candles were blown out.
"Stay with me," I had whispered into the soft hush of the evening, my arms around her as the servants cleared the garden and the grown-ups lingered over wine. "As my real gift. Stay tonight."
And Eva — sweet, bright Eva, wearing a ribbon I had tied into her hair myself — had looked up at me like I was made of something sacred.
"Of course," she said, her voice catching on the breath of her joy. "I have to keep my Ina company on her very special day."
The way she had said it — it wasn't duty, it wasn't even affection. It was some secret promise she'd made in her heart and carved into mine, wordless and ancient.
That night, I let myself be soft. Let myself be small and spoiled and unguarded in the way only she ever saw. I told her she belonged in my lap, and so she crawled into it without hesitation, curling herself against me like a cat made of moonlight. I told her I wanted a kiss, and she gave me ten. On each cheek. On my nose. On both ears. My shoulders. My hands.
"Ten kisses minimum," she declared solemnly, counting on her fingers. "Two for your cheeks, one for your nose, one for your chin, one for your forehead, both ears, both hands, and your smile."
"My smile?"
She kissed the corner of my mouth. "Yes, because it's part of your face, but it's special. So it gets an extra one."
I asked her to kiss me on the lips.
She didn't even blink.
She leaned in, lips as soft as dreams, and kissed me once, twice, three times — giggling in between like she didn't know what I was asking for, or maybe she did, but only in the way a child understands light without naming it fire.
"Now you have to give me a million," she teased, arms wrapping tight around my neck.
And I did.
That night was ours. The bed was ours. The laughter was ours. The warmth was a secret stitched between us. No one saw how she clung to me beneath the sheets, murmuring my name like a lullaby. No one heard the way I whispered to her in the dark, not even words, just sounds of belonging.
I held her like I would never let go. Because I didn't want to. Because I don't know how.
Because I know this won't last forever.
She's five, yes. But even now, I can see the shape of the future inside her eyes — how she questions everything, how she tilts her head when she learns, how the world is already calling her name. She's a genius. She's curious. One day, she'll look outward, and her orbit will grow.
And when that happens, will she still call me her sun? Will she still kiss my hands and wear my shirts like they mean everything?
I don't know.
But I do know this: right now, I am the only one she loves like this. I am her whole world, and she is the moonbeam knight of mine. Right now, I matter most.
I will not waste it.
Even if I have to isolate her. Even if I have to manipulate the way she clings to me. I do it gently. I do it with sweetness. I do it with kisses. She doesn't know. Maybe she never will.
But she's mine.
*****
The morning was slow and soft. The sun hadn't reached the high windows yet, but Eva had already begun to stir.
She murmured something, still half-asleep, and then — like a sunflower reaching instinctively toward its light — she wrapped both arms around my waist and buried her face in my chest.
"Ina…" she sighed, voice fogged with dreams.
"I'm here," I whispered, brushing her hair back from her forehead.
She blinked up at me, then smiled with such brightness it almost hurt. "Good morning, my Seraphina., my Yue, my Ina."
I laughed. "You can't say my name like that and expect me to be normal for the rest of the day."
"You're not supposed to be normal," she declared, kissing my chin. "You're special."
She sat up, still in my shirt, rubbing sleep from her eyes. It hung off her shoulders like a robe, sleeves past her wrists, collar wide enough to slide down one side.
"You're still wearing that?" I asked, trying not to sound too fond.
"Of course!" she beamed. "It's my favorite. It smells like your hugs. I'll only give it back if you kiss me ten times again."
I obliged.
Nose, cheeks, chin, forehead, lips. Hands. Ears. The crown of her head. She squealed and rolled on the bed, laughing so hard the sheets tangled around her.
We went down to breakfast like that—her still in my shirt, me in last night's silken robe. The staff had already set out platters: poached eggs with truffle oil, melon slices, small sweet buns glazed with violet sugar.
She only wanted toast and jam.
So I sat beside her, buttering it carefully, while she hummed to herself and kicked her legs beneath the table like a girl with no weight on her heart.
It's not true. She carries mine.
*****
When Aunt Evelyn arrived to pick her up, I half - expected her to tease us like Aunt Vivienne did. But she was quieter — smiling, yes, but not intruding.
She looked at Eva in my shirt, then at me in my robe.
Then she smiled again, softer this time.
"Did you enjoy your birthday, Seraphina?" she asked, crouching to brush a lock of hair from Eva's face.
"I did," I answered. "Because she was there."
Eva launched herself at Aunt Evelyn with her usual exuberance, chattering about pastries and pretend - queen games. Aunt Evelyn listened. She always listened.
And when they left, when they walked hand in hand down the garden path toward the border gate, Eva turned back again and waved like she always did.
"I'll come back tomorrow!" she called.
"You always say that," I replied.
"Because I always do!"
*****
The house felt quieter after she left. Colder.
The Langford estate was never built for warmth. It was built for marble and pride. For crystal and silence and ancestral portraits whose eyes never blinked. My parents praised order and legacy. But Eva's laughter still echoed in the high halls, defiant and sweet, like spring in a mausoleum.
I sat back down in my room and found the jewelry box again.
Her gift.
I ran my fingers across the edges — smooth lacquered wood, velvet lining. Inside, the sun-and-moon earrings glowed faintly in the morning light. The ring sparkled with starlight diamonds. The bracelet, the necklace — all carved with purpose, with secrets, with love.
All for me.
All from her.
And yet, the world didn't know.
At the party, everyone had assumed my parents had commissioned them. That this level of detail, elegance, and craftsmanship must have come from someone with status, someone with connections.
They didn't see the five - year - old in the corner, clutching her glass of sparkling water and staring at me like I hung the stars. They didn't know she had drawn every sketch, chosen every gem, asked her mére— aunt Vivi for help making it real.
The Ainsleys had asked me to keep it quiet.
"Eva doesn't need more attention than she already gets," Aunt Evelyn had said gently, days before. "Let her just be yours. Quietly. Safely."
And I'd agreed.
Because I understood what they meant.
Power attracts envy. Money attracts malice. And a little girl with too much of both could become a target, especially if people saw what she could create — what she was already capable of.
So I let them believe the Langfords had done it. I let the party guests coo and fawn and speculate which Parisian artisan had crafted my ring. I let my parents take the credit, even though they had nothing to do with it.
But when one of the girls at school whispered, "Wow, your parents must really love you," I looked her in the eye and said:
"It wasn't from them."
"Oh?"
"It was from Eva. And her family."
The room had gone still. Just for a second.
Then someone scoffed. "That Ainsley girl?"
"She's not even really—"
But I didn't let them finish.
"She's the reason I smiled yesterday," I said, my voice cold enough to silence them. "And the reason I will again tomorrow."
They shut up after that.
Because even if they mocked her — even if they called her a gremlin, even if they rolled their eyes at her joy — they knew I never left her side. And that meant something.
No one crosses a Langford.
Not even for jealousy.
Especially not when the Langford in question is me.