Chapter 9: Silk and Silver Spoons
The car smelled like jasmine, leather, and a CEO's quarterly bonus. Eva sat strapped into a custom child seat that matched the cream interior—hand-stitched, of course. Her patent leather shoes tapped softly against the seat cushion. Her legs were too short to dangle properly. Her hands were folded in her lap, as neat as a ribbon on a gift box.
She looked like a luxury doll.
She was not impressed.
This wasn't a casual trip to the park with Aunt Viv, or a sneaky stop at the patisserie her mom loved. No, this was official. Her first Lioré family banquet. A full-capital-F Family Event.
And the prep had been serious.
"No speaking unless we address you first," her dad said earlier that afternoon, cufflinks glinting as he adjusted his shirt. "Keep it short. 'Yes,' 'no,' and 'thank you.' Got it?"
Eva blinked, once, twice. Then gave a solemn nod.
Her mom, sitting beside her in a dusty rose sheath dress that whispered when she moved, had leaned down and cradled her face gently. "Sweetheart, this isn't about hiding you. You're… different. And they'll notice. But it's your choice who gets to know the real you. Being born into this family doesn't mean you owe them access."
Eva didn't totally get what was at stake. But she knew the way their voices sounded—tight, protective, almost scared.
So she'd nodded again. "Okay, Mama. I'll be quiet."
*****
The Lioré estate looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine—the kind on marble coffee tables in waiting rooms no one actually reads. Towering columns. Mirrored glass. A reflecting pool that shimmered like liquid silver under the sunset. Landscaped gardens buzzed with motion, though you couldn't spot the gardeners unless you knew where to look. The chandeliers sparkled even from outside.
"Big house," Eva murmured from the backseat.
Her dad's mouth twitched.
Her mom reached back and gently squeezed her hand. "Just hold Papa's hand when we go in, okay?"
Eva nodded. She wasn't scared. But the air felt tight. Like it was watching her.
*****
Inside, the ballroom was all perfume, candlelight, and casually obscene wealth. Champagne fizzed. Crystal clinked. Live strings played from behind velvet curtains. People moved like they were part of a ballet—graceful, deliberate, rehearsed.
No one noticed her at first.
Perfect.
Eva stayed close to her dad's leg, small and quiet. Her shoes made no sound on the marble floor. Her dark eyes scanned the room. She tracked who stood where, which names were whispered, who laughed too loudly or lingered too long near the open bar.
She didn't mean to do it. It just happened.
Still, her inner toddler peeked out when she spotted a pyramid of chocolate truffles near the dessert table. She tugged gently at her aunt's beaded sleeve.
Vivienne, dressed in violet chiffon and highlighter-worthy lashes, scooped her up like she'd been waiting for it. "Oh no. Not the truffles. We'll sneak one later. Don't look at your mama—she'll glare at us both."
Eva giggled, tucking her face into her aunt's neck. She smelled like expensive gardenia and sugar cookies.
"Are you behaving?" Vivienne murmured, tapping her cheek.
Eva nodded solemnly. "I'm pretending to be normal."
Her aunt snorted. "Honey, you missed normal by a mile."
*****
Her grandparents made their entrance fashionably late.
Immaculate, of course. Her grandmother wore a navy gown so structured it could probably walk on its own. Her grandfather, all silver hair and polished authority, leaned lightly on an ironwood cane that could double as a weapon.
They didn't bend. Didn't greet. Didn't smile.
Not until her dad walked her up with one steady hand on her back.
"This is Evangeline," he said evenly.
Eva didn't reach out. She knew better.
Her grandfather squinted like she was some rare museum piece. "Small."
"She's two," her father reminded him.
Her grandmother gave her a look like she was running mental code. "Pretty. Quiet."
"She's observant," her mom said, calm and clipped.
Eva curtsied. Textbook perfect. "Good evening."
A flicker of interest passed between the pair.
"Hmm," her grandfather grunted.
Eva didn't blink. Didn't fidget.
Apparently, that was enough.
*****
Dinner was endless.
Eva sat between her parents at a table that looked like it was curated by a luxury catalog editor—linen, candles, too many forks. Her feet dangled. Her water glass had a coaster. Her soup had gold dust in it. (She wasn't supposed to know that, but she did.)
She didn't talk. She just watched.
The adults chatted in a way that wasn't really chatting—more like fencing, all polite parries and dodges. The laughter was brittle. No one said what they meant.
Eva traced foggy swirls on her water glass and tried not to zone out.
Then a man across the table—older, with sharp eyes and an even sharper smile—leaned forward slightly.
"Bright girl, isn't she?"
Her dad tensed. "She's a child."
"Mm. Seems aware for her age."
Eva glanced up, met his gaze without flinching.
"What's your favorite number, little miss?"
Her mom opened her mouth. Eva beat her to it.
"Four."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Why four?"
"Because it's the only number equal to the sum of its own digits squared."
He blinked. Once.
She blinked back.
Her mom choked on her wine. Her aunt ducked her head, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Her dad said, very calmly, "Eva, darling, can you pass me the bread?"
She handed it over with a straight face. Then kept eating.
The table paused. Then pretended it hadn't happened.
*****
After dessert—crème brûlée, slightly torched—Eva was allowed a break. Her aunt carried her into the hallway outside the ballroom, where it was quieter, dimmer. The buzz faded behind closed doors.
The corridor was lined with oil portraits of severe-looking ancestors. All stiff collars and judgmental brows.
Eva stared at one for a long beat. "He looks mad."
Vivienne followed her gaze. "That's your great-grandfather. He was always mad."
"Did he like kids?"
"He tolerated them."
Eva nodded. "Good thing I was born later."
Vivienne laughed. "You'd have crushed him by age three."
Eva corrected her, soft as a sigh. "Two."
Vivienne hoisted her higher on her hip. "Your mom and dad are trying, you know. Trying to keep you out of the mess."
"What mess?"
"The legacy. The name. All the strings attached."
Eva leaned into her shoulder. "They don't want me to be used."
"No, love. They want you to be free."
*****
Back in the ballroom, beneath the soft murmur of strings and silverware, Evelyn caught Vivienne's eye.
A glance. A raised brow.
Vivienne's smile tilted as she approached, touching Eva's curls as she passed her to her father.
"Be right back," she whispered.
A moment later, the balcony doors clicked open.
The night air was cooler, the city lights twinkling like scattered coins beyond the garden walls. Vivienne leaned on the stone railing, heels dangling slightly off the edge. Evelyn joined her silently, close enough their sleeves brushed.
"I saw that," Evelyn murmured.
"Saw what?"
"That look you gave the truffle table. You were plotting theft."
Vivienne laughed softly. "One day, I'll retire and open a bakery. It'll be called Truffles and Lies."
"I'd eat there." Evelyn's gaze was steady.
"You always taste like sugar when you lie."
Vivienne turned slightly, amused. "Are you flirting with me?"
"I'm off duty."
"That's not an answer."
Evelyn leaned in, one hand brushing Vivienne's wrist. "You wore violet. You know what that does to me."
Vivienne tilted her head. "Ten minutes?"
"Nine," Evelyn murmured.
Vivienne kissed her—slow, deliberate, silk over fire. The kind of kiss they never got to have indoors. It tasted like wine, gardenia, and defiance.
They stayed like that for a breathless stretch of minutes. Then Vivienne tucked her hair back into place, straightened her earrings, and sighed.
"I left Eva with her pretend dad. She'll notice I'm gone."
"She won't say a word."
They slipped back inside before anyone noticed. Just two polished women returning from a perfectly normal conversation about wine or wallpaper or politics. Perfectly proper.
But Vivienne's lipstick was smudged. And Evelyn's heart was still pounding.
*****
By the time the night ended, Eva was almost asleep, cheek pressed to her dad's shoulder as he carried her to the car. Her face was flushed, lashes dark against her skin.
In the backseat, her mom ran fingers through her hair.
"She did so well," she whispered.
"She's two," her dad said, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. "And she outplayed five grown-ups."
Vivienne, already scrolling through photos in the passenger seat, muttered, "One of them runs the central bank."
They all laughed under their breath.
Eva stirred, barely audible. "Four…"
Her parents shared a look.
She didn't have to impress anyone.
She just had to be her.
And she had been. Exactly.
*****
That night, after she'd been changed and tucked into her soft bed, her mom lingered by her side. Vivienne leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, still watching.
"She didn't cry once," her mom said, stroking Eva's temple.
"She never does," Vivienne murmured. "But she feels everything."
"I know." A kiss pressed gently to her forehead. "We'll keep her safe. No matter what."
*****
Eva dreamed of chandeliers and truffles, of too-tight shoes and sugar-sweet voices. Of forks she didn't know how to use and numbers no one asked her to say.
But in the dream, her mama and aunt held her hand the whole time.
And that made everything okay.