Chapter 80: She Wears My Shirt Like a Promise
Seraphina's Perspective
The morning light spilled softly across my room, brushing the edges of everything it touched with gentle gold. Eva lay curled against me, her small hand clutching the hem of my oversized navy shirt—the one she had insisted on wearing to bed. She claimed she "forgot" her pajamas, but I knew better. She wanted to stay wrapped in me, even if only in fabric.
I traced a fingertip along her cheek as she stirred, the faintest smile playing on her lips. Her breaths were slow, warm against my skin, and for a moment, the world outside didn't exist.
In the kitchen, the scent of fresh pastries crept through the halls, coaxing her awake.
"Hmm…" she murmured sleepily. "Ina?"
"Good morning, moonbeam," I whispered, smoothing the soft waves of hair from her forehead.
Her eyes fluttered open, deep pools still glazed with dreams. "Did I really sleep all night?"
"All night," I confirmed, smiling. "You didn't steal the blanket once."
She giggled, cheeks pink and soft. "You're just warm."
Breakfast was our quiet ritual—brioche toasted golden, fresh berries bursting with sweetness, and warm vanilla tea with cream. Eva sat cross-legged in her chair, her tiny feet swinging beneath the table, still swathed in my shirt, the clouds embroidered near the collar a whimsical promise of sky and dreams.
"After breakfast," she said between bites of strawberry, "let's play for real. Not chess or piano or poems."
"Real play?"
"Yes. Like pretend. You can be the Sky Queen, and I'll be your Moonbeam Knight."
I laughed, leaning in. "And what do Moonbeam Knights do?"
She puffed out her chest proudly. "Protect your smile—with kisses and candy."
We escaped to the west courtyard, the one with hydrangeas that curled like velvet and a small stone circle shaded by towering oaks. I tied a scarf around her shoulders, a makeshift cape that billowed when she charged the hedges with a wooden spoon sword.
When I caught her, she collapsed against me, both of us falling onto the cool grass in peals of laughter. Her joy was contagious, a light I held close.
But time slipped away, as it always did.
Aunt Vivi would arrive soon.
Eva's electric toy car waited near the garden gate—a marvel unlike any other. Not a mere toy, but a small, solar-powered vehicle, sleek and carefully crafted like a real car, designed just for her. No one else had one like it.
We rode it often along the garden path that connected Langford's estate to Ainsley's—a shaded lane lined with ancient oaks and wrought-iron lanterns. Today, Eva drove it herself, hands small but sure on the wheel, the soft hum of the motor barely audible under birdsong.
When we reached the Ainsley gate, a golf cart with cool air conditioning—another gift from Vivienne—waited. It was their designated shuttle along the path, silent and smooth.
Eva parked her little car carefully and slid off.
I reached for her hand, walking with her toward the garden's edge, where the path opened into the driveway.
"Ina," she whispered suddenly, tugging at my sleeve. "Before Mére gets here… can I have a kiss? Just on the cheek."
Without hesitation, I bent down and pressed my lips softly to her warm cheek.
"Have fun at school," she said shyly. "Bye, Ina."
Her cheeks flushed pink.
So did mine.
Aunt Vivi's voice called out then, bright and teasing as she approached.
"Well, well, what's this?" she smiled, poking Eva's cheek playfully. "Why aren't you wearing your clothes, little thief?"
Eva's blush deepened. "I forgot…"
"She always forgets," I said with a smile, arms crossed, trying not to laugh.
Vivi chuckled. "That shirt looks like a dress on you! But somehow, you pull it off."
"It's comfortable!" Eva defended fiercely.
Vivi tousled her hair. "Of course it is. All of Ina's things are magical."
I watched them climb into the golf cart, the soft hum of the air conditioning pulling Eva away from me, and felt a small ache in my chest. Even though she belonged to another world—one I wasn't part of—she belonged to me.
*****
At school, the halls grew colder.
The Langford name clung to me like a gilded cage. My family's wealth was a whisper in every classroom—a legacy of banks, sprawling estates, political influence that stretched across continents. The girls eyed me with a mix of awe and distance, like I was a crystal figurine too fragile to touch.
They didn't see me.
They saw the Langford crest stitched on my blazer, the gold rings on my fingers, the invisible weight of my inheritance.
Some tried to draw close, offering flattery and gifts fashioned by their nannies. They told tales of dinners with diplomats, of summer homes on remote islands. Invitations came and went, but always felt like transactions—efforts to harvest prestige.
No one asked what I liked. What I dreamed. Who I was beyond the name.
Except Eva.
Only Eva held me like a person, not a prize. She clung to my hand with no regard for status, loved me for the way I laughed or fumbled poems, and wasn't afraid to show it.
Sometimes, I wondered if her family was richer than mine.
I only knew them as Ainsley, a name my parents sneered at behind closed doors.
"New money," my father spat once at dinner. "All flash and no pedigree. So what if they have wealth? They have no power."
Mother nodded. "And their nonsense about innovation and tech… all surface. No legacy."
The Ainsleys, after all, were very, very wealthy—far beyond the old aristocratic families in N••••• who clung to their crumbling estates and fading coats of arms. But no one knew quite where the Ainsleys had come from. There were no ballads, no family crests etched into cathedral walls. Just silence, marble gates, and accounts that never ran dry.
It was easier, then, for people like the Langfords to assume they had no pedigree. No story. No standing. Just new money in well-tailored clothes.
What the public did know—the curated whispers—was that the Ainsleys owned hospitals, mines, lands stretching across continents, pharmaceutical giants, and held patents for nearly every medicine on the market. But they kept quiet. No galas. No society papers. No visible need to be adored.
That silence, that restraint, made them a target. Especially for families like Seraphina's. And yet, Eva walked through the world like it was hers.
They laughed, but their words stung.
Vivienne worked at a prestigious gallery—or so they thought. What they didn't know was that Vivienne didn't truly work there. She owned the gallery. She curated its halls for pleasure, not out of necessity. It was a pastime, nothing more. A diversion between garden walks and composing violin duets for Eva.
They mocked her, of course. Mocked the estate. Mocked the quiet beauty of it all.
"They treat that manor like a fairytale," my father scoffed. "A frivolous fantasy."
"And why," he added with disdain, "let Reginald's younger sister raise the child? She's wealthy beyond sense but won't even trust a nanny with the gremlin."
He snorted into his glass.
"What's the point of all that money if they can't even manage a household?"
Mother sighed, exasperated. "And Evelyn—clearly, she wears the pants in that house. No respect for tradition. It's always her way, her rules, her schedule."
"They have so many help," Father added dryly, swirling his brandy, "but heaven forbid they let Eva be cared for by just them. A full staff of professionals, and yet the child is practically fused to their hips."
"They treat the little gremlin like a priceless diamond," Mother huffed, lips pursed. "Carried around like Cleopatra's reincarnation. Honestly—if she so much as yawns, three people leap to fetch her silk pillows."
"Did you see the linens?" Father continued, raising an eyebrow. "Monogrammed. In Greek, no less. Who monograms napkins for a child in the language of Plato?"
"And her jewelry," Mother added with a snort. "She has more gemstones than I wore on my wedding day. All because she draws a few swirls and bats her lashes."
"It's calculated," Father muttered, clearly offended. "She's weaponized charm. A glittering little strategist with baby fat and a death grip on everyone's affection."
Mother gave a solemn nod. "Mark my words—she'll be running Parliament by thirteen."
"She already runs Evelyn," Father said grimly. "And Evelyn runs Vivienne. And Vivienne… well, she just smiles and gives the imp more diamonds."
Their scorn was sharp, carving hollows in my chest.
I hated their cruelty, their dismissal of a family I barely knew but loved because of Eva.
I would never treat her that way.
When I inherit Langford, I'll rewrite what it means to belong. Not by blood or money, but by heart.
I will love Eva fiercely, for who she is, not where she comes from.
And I will protect her from the poison of pedigree.
*****
That afternoon, after school, I touched the delicate jewelry Eva had given me—the ring with the sun and moon, the necklace of stars resting quietly over my heart.
Her poem in Greek lingered in my mind:
"Ὑπόσχεσις ἀστέρων
Φιλοῦμαι σὲ μὲ ποίηση καὶ δάκρυα—
Καὶ ὑπισχνοῦμαι· δὲν θὰ εἶσαι ποτὲ μόνη."
A promise in the stars:
I kiss you with poetry and tears—
And I vow—you shall never be alone.
She meant it.
And so did I.
*****
Later, back at Ainsley estate, Aunt Vivi teased Eva mercilessly.
"You're still wearing Ina's shirt, you little thief," she laughed, poking Eva's cheek.
"It smells like Ina," Eva said, dreamy and stubborn. "I'm not taking it off."
"Did you get a kiss goodbye?" Vivi asked, eyes twinkling.
"Just the cheek," Eva murmured, blushing. "But Ina kissed me first."
"Scandalous," Vivi chuckled, guiding Eva inside.
Inside, Evelyn glanced up from her book, smiling softly at the sight of Eva draped in my shirt.
"She's got you wrapped around her finger," Evelyn said to Vivi.
"Hook, line, and heart," Vivi replied with a grin.
They shared a look, a silent story of love and endurance written across years.
And somewhere in their laughter, I knew Eva's love was not just a fleeting thing—but a promise woven through time, like the threads of my shirt that she wore so proudly.
She wears my shirt like a promise.