Chapter 86: Her Only Constant
In a glittering hall filled with velvet gowns and polished smiles, a small figure stood like a forgotten note in a symphony too grand. The world around her shimmered—chandeliers twinkling, silverware clinking, laughter echoing through marble corridors—but none of it reached her. She was adrift, swaying quietly in shoes too new, swallowed by silks and stares.
She wasn't here for the sweets, or the dances, or the curious glances of children dressed like porcelain. She was here for one thing only.
And when she saw her—across the room, framed by a lattice of light—everything else vanished.
There was no etiquette, no grace. Just the sound of quick steps and a child's breathless joy as she flung herself into open arms that caught her like they'd been waiting all evening.
It didn't matter who was watching. Not when her world had narrowed to the scent of safety and the warmth of belonging.
Later, in a quiet drawing room far from the clamor, she lay curled like a kitten against her moonlight—whispering sleepy poems, demanding kisses, tracing dreams into the fabric of a silk sash. The party carried on. But they were already elsewhere—somewhere sacred, wrapped in velvet shadows and vows made in murmurs.
And the next day, beneath the sun-drenched windows of home, pencil in hand, she sketched not for the world, but for the one who held her. Jewels, swans, hidden hinges—designs meant for no gallery but the soul. Not for sale. Not for strangers. Only for the one who always came back.
The one who never forgot.
With each line she drew, she stitched another promise into gold: You are my sun, my moon, my stars.
She didn't need the world.
She had her constant.
And that was everything.