Chapter 144: A Delicate Balance
The early afternoon sunlight slanted gently through the lace curtains of the drawing room, dust motes dancing in the soft hush of the Maxwell – Lioré's Manoir des Ombres. The scent of jasmine tea lingered, and somewhere in the background, a violin sonata played faintly from Vivienne's old speaker. It was quiet — but not the lonely kind.
It was the kind of stillness that only came when Eva was near.
Evelyn sat on the sun - drenched chaise, chin cradled in her hand as she watched her daughter from across the room. Her little dove stood barefoot by the open kitchen pass - through, stirring something delicate in a copper bowl. Cream, sugar, lavender. A smear of flour dusted her cheek like a careless kiss, and her sleeves were rolled unevenly to her elbows. She moved with that same poised deliberation that haunted Seraphina's dreams — silent, careful, self - contained.
The tablet on the counter blinked to life with a familiar face.
"You're doing that thing again," Eva said without looking up. Her voice was soft, but it carried with unnerving precision.
"What thing?" Seraphina asked, blinking out of her reverie.
"Staring. Like you're trying to memorize me."
Seraphina didn't deny it. "Maybe I am," she murmured.
Eva giggled. From the armchairs nearby, Evelyn and Vivienne exchanged a glance and leaned in conspiratorially.
"Our little dove has found herself quite the admirer," Evelyn whispered.
Vivienne smirked, sipping her tea. "So intense, these two. It's like a novel unfolding in real time."
Eva looked up briefly, her gaze catching theirs with a flicker of amused dread. "You're impossible."
"And you're beautiful," Seraphina replied without missing a beat.
Color bloomed high on Eva's cheekbones. She ducked her head, stirring the lavender cream more vigorously than necessary.
She never quite knew what to do with Seraphina's affections — never recoiled from them, but never quite held them directly either. She absorbed love like a cold stone in sunlight: slowly, deeply, without complaint.
Seraphina stood and padded across the marble floor of her own estate, leaning into the camera. "I miss your lunches. The ones you used to pack for me. My little moonbeam edible love letters."
Eva's breath hitched — but only slightly. She didn't look away from her mixing bowl. "Then maybe I'll start making them again."
"You'd better," Seraphina teased. "Or I'll wither into a lovesick poem."
"I will. When I go back home. Where I belong."
That earned a faint laugh from the tablet speaker — barely audible, but real.
Vivienne leaned toward Evelyn. "Did we ever sound like that?"
Evelyn quirked a brow. "Worse. And louder."
"I heard that!" Eva called out, not even turning around.
The two women chuckled as if they hadn't been caught. Vivienne tossed a berry at Evelyn, who caught it with a grin and popped it into her mouth.
"Don't mind us," Evelyn called sweetly. "Just reminiscing about the days when we, too, were scandalously in love."
"Still are," Vivienne added with mock solemnity, earning a swat from Evelyn.
Eva groaned. "Can we not?"
"Oh, sweetheart, if we stop teasing, how will you know we love you?" Evelyn teased.
They all laughed then — even Seraphina, watching from hundreds of kilometers away.
Later, the house quieted. In the sun-warmed kitchen, Evelyn and Vivienne moved in wordless rhythm. Evelyn chopped fruit while Vivienne folded pastry. It felt like something borrowed from a parallel life — one without secrets or shadows, without Reginald's expectations or Evelyn's carefully crafted lies.
Just two women. In love. Baking together.
Vivienne paused, brushing flour from her hands. "It's too quiet. Either we've become boring, or something's coming."
Evelyn didn't look up. "Or we're just — finally allowed to rest."
Vivienne leaned against the counter, arms crossed, but her eyes were somewhere far away. "Maybe."
After the tarts cooled and the sun began its slow descent behind the elms, Vivienne retreated upstairs. Since returning from the archives in Lyon, she had become more reserved. Still hers, still Evelyn's — yet folded in on herself, like a letter written in code.
Evelyn wandered into the sitting room and paused. On the piano sat a cream-colored envelope, edged in gold. No return address. Just an unfamiliar wax seal — a stylized flame cradling an eye.
She picked it up.
"Planning to open my mail now?" came Vivienne's voice, soft and teasing from the doorway.
Evelyn turned, smile curling. "Only if it's scandalous."
Vivienne stepped forward. "Would you be jealous?"
"Always."
Vivienne slipped her arms around Evelyn's waist, drawing her close. "Good morning, Mrs. Lioré."
Evelyn smiled, pressing a kiss to the edge of her jaw. "Good morning, Mrs. Maxwell."
They giggled like girls half their age, and for a moment, the weight of titles and expectations melted. Here, in the soft hush of morning and tangled linens, names meant nothing. Only the warmth between them mattered.
"We should make haste," Evelyn murmured, brushing her lips against Vivienne's ear. "Before our little dove wakes up and finds her mothers scandalously intertwined again."
Vivienne tilted her head, eyes glittering. "Let her. I'd rather she find us wrapped in love than armored in silence."
Evelyn rolled her eyes with affection. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic."
"And you," Vivienne whispered, trailing her fingers up Evelyn's spine, "always fall for it."
Evelyn pretended to sigh, but her body leaned instinctively into Vivienne's. "Maybe I just fall for you."
"Daily, I hope," Vivienne teased, sliding her hands beneath the hem of Evelyn's blouse, her touch light but deliberate.
"Hourly," Evelyn corrected, voice warm. "Even when I don't want to."
Vivienne's lips curved into a grin, and she guided Evelyn backward until her back met the door. "Especially then."
The kiss they shared was unhurried and molten — the kind that came not from urgency but from certainty. Their hands moved with familiarity and reverence, undoing buttons like quiet promises. Clothes slid away slowly, landing on the floor like petals.
"Still breathtaking," Vivienne murmured as her fingers brushed bare skin, her voice more reverent than hungry.
Evelyn arched an eyebrow. "Still?" she teased. "You sound surprised."
"Shocked, frankly," Vivienne deadpanned. "I thought love faded with sleep deprivation and the smell of expensive conditioner."
Evelyn laughed, breathless. "Then consider this your daily reminder that I am not so easily outshined."
Vivienne kissed her then, soft and deep. "You never were."
They moved together in rhythm born of years, not weeks — slow, certain, full of all they had survived. They touched not as people chasing passion, but as two women who had built a quiet empire of love in defiance of everything that tried to dismantle them.
And when Evelyn whispered Vivienne's name — once, then again, then like a prayer — Vivienne answered not with words but with everything she had left to give.
They loved each other like veterans of an intimate war — steady, strong, and desperately tender.
In the following days, life settled into delicate rituals.
Video calls. Letters. Late - night texts. The curl of Eva's voice through the screen. The softness in Seraphina's gaze. They read poetry aloud beneath the willows in their respective gardens, miles apart but tethered by breath and syllables.
Seraphina taught Eva a new piano piece, guiding her fingers through the notes like a waltz between lovers.
Eva sketched flowers they couldn't name and sent them in the post with shy little notes: "This one reminded me of your laugh."
And still — Eva checked the mailbox herself every morning.
Vivienne noticed.
On the third evening, after Seraphina had fallen asleep mid - call with a book open across her chest, Eva slipped quietly through the east wing. Past the shadowed corridor and into the hidden room behind the false cabinet.
The training space remained as secret as ever.
A mat. Weighted rods. A mirror etched in runes only Reginald, Vivienne, and Evelyn could decipher.
She moved through her drills, breath sharp, sweat clinging to her spine. Her body ached, but she welcomed the pain. It gave form to the confusion she couldn't name.
Vivienne arrived minutes later, arms crossed.
"You're pushing harder."
"I have to," Eva said between ragged breaths.
"No," Vivienne replied gently. "You don't."
"He said I must."
Vivienne crossed the room and took the rod from her hands.
"My brother says many things," she said. "But it's you who chooses whether to believe him."
"I just want him to be proud."
Vivienne pulled her into an embrace, cupping the back of her head.
"He is, in his own cold way. But pride is not the same as love."
"I want both," Eva whispered.
Vivienne kissed her forehead. "And you deserve both. What your papa cannot give, I'll give you a hundred times. Is that enough, my little dove?"
Eva sniffled. "Mére… I really wish you were my mom. Like Maman."
Vivienne didn't flinch. She simply held her tighter. "In every way that matters — I am."
They stayed like that for a long time, folded into each other's warmth, legacy momentarily forgotten.
Back in N•••••, Seraphina woke to cold sheets.
The bed beside her was empty. The weight of Eva's presence — her breath, her warmth — gone.
She wandered the quiet manor, her nightgown trailing behind her like a ghost. The piano room was dark. The envelope had vanished. Her heart ached in a place language couldn't touch.
She returned to the bedroom. On the pillow: a note.
Went to F••••. I'll be back soon. Don't wait up.
No signature. None needed.
That night, Eva returned quietly. Seraphina pretended to sleep.
But Eva curled behind her anyway, pressing her lips to Seraphina's brow.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm trying."
Seraphina didn't speak.
But her hand found Eva's beneath the blankets — and squeezed. Once. Firm. Certain.
Eva held on.
Unsent Entry from Seraphina's Journal
I'm afraid she's slipping through my fingers. I see her. I touch her. I hear her voice — but pieces of her are already buried beneath something ancient. Her name. That name. Ainsley. What does it mean? And what is that letter in her drawer? The one edged in gold, sealed with flame and eye. I touched it once. It burned. I believe her when she says she loves me. But when she says she's mine… I wonder if the world will let her be.
She still makes me pastries.
She still kisses me goodnight.
But some nights, I think her heart is already halfway gone.