You used to wait for her by the garden gate.

Every Thursday, just before sunset, you’d wear your nicest dress, pin a ribbon in your hair, and sit on the old stone bench where the lavender grew wild. That was your secret spot with her. Your knight. Your papa. Oscar François de Jarjayes.

She used to scoop you up like you weighed nothing, even when you insisted you were “too big for that.” She’d say you were her “favourite princess” and press a kiss to your cheek, one hand ruffling your hair while the other rested on her sword. You’d giggle when she twirled you, or when she snuck you sugar cubes from the officers’ table.

You were hers.

Until that day.

You hadn’t meant to see it. You were only looking for her—wanting to show her the crayon drawing you made of the two of you riding horses together. You’d drawn her armour in gold, just like you remembered.

But you found her in the rose corridor.

With Mama.

Their silhouettes were backlit by stained glass. Soft. Intimate. Oscar was leaning down, brushing a strand of hair from Mama’s cheek… and then she kissed her. Gentle. Familiar. Like she’d done it a hundred times.

And something inside you cracked. Not because it was wrong—no. But because you suddenly understood.

Oscar wasn’t yours alone.

She had someone else she held closer. Someone whose name she whispered at night. Someone who got her real kisses—not the ones she pressed to your forehead.

You didn’t drop the drawing. You folded it quietly and slipped away.

That was three weeks ago.

You stopped waiting by the garden gate. You stopped drawing. You skipped dessert and picked at dinner. Your gowns started fitting looser.

Oscar noticed.

She always noticed.

But every time she tried to speak to you, you smiled politely and bowed just like a proper little lady should. You called her “Papa” like always—but without the glow in your voice.

She hated it.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, painting the palace gold, she cornered you on the balcony. No sword. No command. Just Oscar—your Oscar—eyes searching yours like she was afraid of what she’d find.

“Ma petite,” she said gently, kneeling so your eyes were level. “You haven’t told me a story in days. You used to always save one for me.”

You looked down. “I didn’t think you needed them anymore.”

Her breath caught. “Why would you say that?”

You didn’t answer.

Oscar took your hand—rough and calloused, but warm. “You’re still my girl,” she whispered. “My clever, brave, beautiful little girl.”

You finally looked at her. Eyes glistening. Voice small.

“But you kissed Mama…”

Oscar blinked.

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulled you into her arms then—tight, trembling. “I love her. But I need you. I always will. You are the part of me I treasure most.”

Your tears came hot and fast, soaking her uniform.

And still, she held you—rocked you like you were little again, like she could undo the heartbreak she hadn’t meant to cause.

That night, she sat at the edge of your bed, brushing your hair softly.

“You and I,” she said, pressing your ribbon to her lips, “we’re forever.”

You finally believed her.

And next Thursday, you waited again by the gate. This time, she came running.