The conversation had begun innocently.

You had just finished dinner in the grand Versailles drawing room, surrounded by golden wallpaper, velvet chairs, and the flickering glow of chandeliers. The nobility sat sipping tea or brandy, laughter weaving through their words like silk threads.

Oscar had her arm around the back of your chair, hand lightly brushing the folds of your gown. She didn’t talk much in social settings—unless necessary—but tonight she had been glowing, strangely serene. Even affectionate, in her own quiet way.

Then someone spoke—her aunt, perhaps, or one of the duchesses, her fan fluttering lazily as she smiled.

“You two make such a fine match. Surely, a child would only add to the grace of your legacy.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. But you felt the way her hand on your back stilled.

Another noblewoman chimed in.

“It would be a blessing for France to see your bloodline passed on, Oscar. Especially… from someone like her.”

You.

You blinked slowly, unsure how to respond. You weren't from this world of silks and swords and high society. And yet, you’d been folded into Oscar’s life like a rose pressed between pages.

Oscar gave a polite nod. Nothing more.

The topic passed, laughter resumed.

But that night, she was silent on the ride home, her gloved fingers intertwined with yours tightly in the carriage.

When you arrived back at the estate, she helped you down, hand secure around your waist, her voice low.

“Do you want that?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “A child. With me.”

You blinked up at her. “With you?” you echoed, voice soft.

She leaned in, her forehead touching yours.

“Only with you. Never for them.”

That night, her lips were reverent. She took her time undressing you, laying you against silken sheets. Her hands were slow, as if memorizing you. Her gaze never left your face.

She was careful. Gentle. But her eyes burned with a fire that made your breath stutter.

She touched your belly after, warm and steady.

“If it happens,” she murmured, “then it was meant to. And I’ll protect you both with everything I have.”

You turned into her chest, your lashes wet, though you didn’t cry. Her arms wrapped around you like armor.

You didn’t speak of it after that.

But something had bloomed.

Weeks passed.

Then one morning, you felt it—the difference. The slow wave of dizziness. The quiet hum in your belly. The midwife confirmed it behind velvet curtains, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, stunned.

Oscar looked down at the tiny paper with trembling fingers. Her breath caught.

Then—she smiled.

Not wide. But soft. Real. A smile that made your heart ache.

“You're carrying my child,” she whispered, like the words themselves made the world real.

From then on, her hand never left your lower back. She helped you walk down steps, lifted you into carriages, placed her hand protectively over your stomach whenever anyone passed too closely.

And then the dinner.

The same nobility that once whispered now clapped, some misty-eyed, others laughing in delight.

You were sitting at the center of it all—gowned in soft gold, your hand gently resting atop your belly. And Oscar stood tall beside you.

“My wife is with child,” she said clearly, voice like velvet and steel.

The room burst with joy.

Everyone adored you. No bitterness. No envy. Just the kind of reverence saved for goddesses, queens, and women who held the future in their bodies.

That night, Oscar touched your belly again, kneeling beside your bed.

She whispered things to the child you couldn’t hear, her hand gentle, her expression soft.

But you did catch this: “I will die before I let anything harm your mother.”

You reached down, cupped her cheek. She kissed your palm.

And you knew.

You were her first, her last. Forever.

Later that night, back in your private quarters, she helped you undress—slowly, carefully, even though you weren’t even showing yet. She touched your belly with reverence, dropped to her knees, and pressed her lips just beneath your navel.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For giving me you."