Chapter Text
The tiniest of hands held onto his finger.
They were not only minuscule, but also unsoiled. They had never touched anything harsher than a mother’s skin, and even if they had been born out of the blood of the living womb, they remained clean.
Then, a set of pure sky-blue eyes looked up to him, hidden behind long blond lashes that fluttered like butterflies. They had not seen anything cruel, anything twisted.
Those tiny lips of pink colour could not utter anything that wasn’t an incoherent mumbling, but they tried nonetheless once they saw the progenitor that held her in his arms.
This creature was completely pure, despite the fact that his own blood ran through her veins. She had been born in the whitest of ivory cradles and her very own being had a brilliant purity that almost blinded him. It was beauty made into flesh.
His daughter was simply divine.
A cherub fallen from the heavens and right into his wicked lair.
His joy, his pride, his...
“My Josephine,” he called softly, earning a chuckle from her, and he fell in love.
What a majestic creature she was!
To think something this delicate and lovable could come out of what was nothing but a marriage of convenience...
He had been after status, so after finding a woman with plenty of it by birthright, he courted her in the way only a devilish bachelor could. The lady was a demure one, with a modest disposition and an honesty that to Philippe was both amusing and incredibly dull, but he also knew that such ladies that had not been given the opportunity to explore and experiment to their hearts content had a childish naiveté that was so easily exploitable by men such as him—scoundrels, that is. It was the only redeeming quality, he thought, of this woman that lacked the beauty he had been searching for.
Declarations of love and passion, of faithfulness and promise were rehearsed melodies he knew in the way a tenor knew his aria, the one he had spent his whole life perfecting in order to perform it in one last, glorious swan song, and although Philippe thought this would not be the last time he’d use his guile and charms to get his way, once he laid eyes upon the tiny creature his wife had given him as a parting gift, he knew his days of fooling around were over.
... Ah, yes, his wife.
Well, a modest lady, she was for sure... With a frail body, as typical ladies had.
The pain of birth she could not survive and she passed a year thereafter, not enjoying even one single glance from her beloved Philippe as he was too busy taking her of the child she had left behind, like a heartless wench. Or that is what he said to little Josephine—omitting that last part—when she was old enough to ask questions in her sweet, girly voice.
In his defense, he was just too busy taking care of Josephine! After all, the poor thing had no mother, he was all she had...
So, he had to be everything for her.
Progenitor, caretaker, teacher, friend...
Lover?
And mother, of course, as she did not have one.
The absence of a maternal figure did not strain little Josephine’s childhood. In fact, if Philippe had to say, she was the happiest being the sole princess of the castle, or more specifically, the villa. And he was, of course, her prince. His sweet Josephine would always ask for his attention and company, no matter what time of the day it was or what responsibilities he had to attend to. With her sweet, bird-like voice, she would beg him to pick her up, to let her cling to him with those small hands, to sit on his lap and he, as the loving father he was, would always oblige.
Her first word had been daddy, and that very same word would be the first and last thing she would pronounce when waking up and when closing her eyes to sleep. She was simply enamoured with her dazzling father, but her love was pure and honest, and her pursuit of him was just a child’s need for affection.
Philippe, on the other hand...
“Daddy, daddy,” she would repeat when catching sight of him in their vast estate or when they walked through the steep streets of the village, always being greeted by the townsfolk who adored both their count and his little girl.
Who would’ve thought this adorable creature would come out of something that was nothing more than a marriage of convenience?
He could not care less about his wife whose only presence at the time was a single portrait hung in one of the walls of the endless hallways of the mansion. It was simply a courtesy, and while she bore a striking resemblance to her progeny, Josephine was simply much more beautiful, much more tender—happier. Of course, this did not stop the little girl from staring at the portrait, looking for some motherly warmth in the cold brushstrokes of a face similar yet unfamiliar. And when she did, Philippe would feel a small tinge of guilt, one that he would quickly shake off. After all, it was not his fault his late wife had a frail body, no?
And little Josephine never seemed too saddened about it, it was merely a curiosity easily satiated. The love her father showered her with was enough to fill her heart and in turn, her gleaming eyes full of unconditional devotion would send Philippe into spasms of joy, unable to contain the happiness his daughter gave him and in turn, her happiness was what made her so beautiful.
“My princess,” he would call her and she would giggle at it, as if it truly meant he was willing to give her the entire world if she so asked.
And, why, it was exactly what Philippe intended to do.
From the day she was born, he promised her he’d do anything to keep her as vibrant as she was, like his very own rose in glass.
He treasured her like he did his own life, but as the girl grew up, his feelings did as well.
They twirled and twisted on themselves. They became... Something else entirely.
The little girl with her short skirts, her tender legs and her way of running around the manor, climbing trees and falling, only to get up again with the same radiant smile. She’d giggle and jump and declare to anyone who would hear that she’d marry her father, that she loved him the most in the whole world, only to immediately have her attention caught by something else that she would chase after.
She was a tomboyish one, wasn’t she?
Of course, there were times when she needed comforting. A particularly harsh fall, a moment of loneliness, a rainy day, a scary nightmare...
And it was then that Philippe would hold her in his arms, sitting in his private study to allow them for some lone father-daughter time. She’d sit on his lap, moving in search for a more comfortable position and accommodating herself on top of him. Then, he’d hug her closely, patting her back and caressing her head up and down while she cried or whined or just asked for his presence. He’d be able to feel her buttocks on top of his legs, the heat emanating from her and her scent making his mind waver. But that was all he would do and, after the little lady had cried enough and felt better, she’d go off to run again, though always within the confines of her cage chosen especially by him.
This tiny caterpillar had yet to become a butterfly, and Philippe had a whole life ahead of him to nurture her, to make her into his highest muse.