//CLARA//
Casimir didn't move for a long beat.
Then, he dismissed the butler with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. The silence that followed into the room hummed like a live wire.
The civil little orphan act was already slipping from my grip.
I leaned back, crossing my legs with a deliberate slowness that sent the silk of my gown rustling loudly. I made sure to show a hint of my ankles, a move that, in this era, was practically an invitation to a scandal.
I caught the way his gaze flickered downward for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my face.
A tiny, victorious thrill shot through me. Ha! Didn't predict that one, did you?
Before he could recover or lecture me on propriety, I cut him off.
"The shipwreck taught me one thing," I said, holding his gaze. "Life's too short to be forgettable." I trailed, smiling sharply. "And I refuse."
I shifted forward, resting my chin over the back of my hand and looking him dead in the eye. I let the silk on my dress dip just low enough to be a distraction.
"The girl you speak of so proudly is dead. She realized this gilded cage was a coffin, and you held the hammer. Look at me, Casimir," my voice turned into mocking self-pity. "I'm already half a ghost. If I waste away into nothing, what will the society say? It would be terrible for the family brand, wouldn't you agree?"
His jaw tightened. For the first time, he shifted from his rigid position and leaned forward, bridging the gap between us until I could smell the freshly ground coffee on his breath.
"You think you can manipulate me with these… childish theatrics?"
His hand moved, his fingers brushing the lace at my wrist and tracing a slow path up to my elbow. Every nerve ending in my body screamed under that ghost of a touch. Then he stopped.
His gaze dropped to my chest, and before I could even think of a retort, he slipped his index finger lightly into the edge of my bodice, pinching the delicate fabric and tugging it up just enough to cover what I had so boldly displayed.
"You are under my protection," his voice morphed into a dangerous register. "That means you are my responsibility, and you are bound to follow my rules."
He stayed so close I could feel the tip of his nose brushing against mine. My heart was hammering, but I steeled my gaze.
"Rules are just suggestions for people without influence," I countered. "Honestly, I'm starting to think you like my theatrics more than you'd ever admit. As if you've been waiting to wake this side of me up for a very long, long time."
Casimir let out a low, ragged breath that fanned across my lips. His hand slid from my sleeve to my forearm, gripping me firmly, almost too possessively.
"You have no idea what you are inviting… Clara."
The way he said my name—my real name—vibrated through me like a warning. He was hot, he was irresistible, and I was pushing for more.
"Try me." I winked at him.
He recoiled instantly, his composure cracking with a flustered blink.
It was glorious.
He stood up abruptly, smoothing his coat with sharp, jerky motions.
"Stay inside the house," he commanded, refusing to look at me. "If you wander, I will have you confined to your rooms."
"Oh, so we're playing gilded cage now? Am I supposed to be afraid?" I called after him as he strode away. "Fine! But if I get so bored, I'll start screaming until the neighbors think you're torturing me!"
Casimir stopped dead in the doorway. He didn't turn around. He just bowed his head for a second, his shoulders heaving with a deep, controlled breath, as if he were praying for the patience not to carry out his threat right then and there.
Then he disappeared.
I fought the urge to kick my feet in the air.
But my victory felt hollow the moment I remembered the name on that letter.
Vanderbilt.
I retreated to my room, pacing the perimeter of the plush rug. My actual great-grandfather was coming here. In my world, he was a black-and-white portrait in a gold frame. A man of distinguished legacy. But the diary had outed him as a predator, a man who would eventually break Eleanor's spirit.
How do you talk to the man who is responsible for half your DNA, not to mention two centuries apart?
I stood before the pier glass, practicing my I'm-not-interested face. I had to play this perfectly. If I was too bold, they'd probably lock me in an asylum. If I was too quiet, they'd sign the contract immediately.
I had exactly one hour of dread before the world came knocking.
Hattie burst in a moment later, her face pale as a ghost.
"Miss... oh, Miss! You must come down at once. Mr. Vanderbilt has arrived. And... and he is not alone."
My blood turned to ice. "Who is with him, Hattie?"
"Lady Cornelia, miss. They are waiting in the drawing room."
Oh, the vultures were officially circling.
I took a deep, steadying breath, smoothing the silk of my mourning gown and marched down. If they expected a weeping orphan, I'm very much enthusiastic to prove them wrong.
I reached the doorway of the drawing room and stopped. A man was leaning against the mantel with a casual grace that felt entirely too practiced.
He was handsome, certainly the kind of Pretty Boy features that would've killed on a Calvin Klein billboard. But his eyes were cold, calculating every inch of the room as if he already owned the deed.
"The mourning lily finally blooms," his voice dripped with syrupy charm as he greeted me. "I had heard the shock of the shipwreck had left you mute, Eleanor. I'm delighted to see the rumors were exaggerated."
My skin crawled. I didn't curtsy in front of him. I just walked to the nearest velvet armchair and sat down, crossing my legs with a rustle of silk that made the air in the room go stiff.
"Well," I said dryly, leaning back and meeting his gaze. "To what do I owe this pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Vanderbilt."
His smile faltered for a micro-second, but before he could respond, a woman's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Have you lost your manners, child?"
My senses were pinging spam notifications inside my head, screaming—the evil witch!
Aunt Cornelia glided from the shadows, draped in heavy black silk and repressed resentment. Her veil was so thick she looked like a vengeful spirit.
I ignored her presence entirely, signaling Hattie to pour my tea. The girl scrambled to comply, setting a steaming cup before me with trembling hands. I took a sip and immediately suppressed a grimace. It was bitter, grassy green tea.
Gosh, what I wouldn't give for a whisked Matcha with oat milk and a hint of vanilla right now. This legit grass-juice is doing nothing for my stress levels.
"Oh, my manners are still there alright," I replied, finally looking at her and waving a hand. "But I don't think I need them right now. They don't really match the company, do they?"
Offended, Aunt Cornelia gasped as if I'd personally slapped her in the face. Her palm slammed onto the center table with enough force to send the teacups into a rattling frenzy.
"Has grief finally addled your wits, Eleanor?" She trembled, her voice turning into venomous hush. "It seems the Guggenheims have been far too indulgent with you. Such bohemian insolence. If you cannot govern your tongue, perhaps a finishing school upstate can govern it for you."
"Finishing school?" I let a mischievous grin spread. "Do they at least have decent lighting? Because if I have to endure this discipline in the dark, the headmistress is going to find out exactly how much of a nightmare I can be."
The old witch looked at Bartholomew as if I have grown three heads.
"I cannot account for her behavior, Bartholomew. The grief must have altered her senses. We must expedite the contract before she brings shame upon the family name."
Bartholomew stepped forward, invading my personal space.
"Now, now. What Eleanor requires is fresh air and gentle society." His voice slithered through the tension like oil on water. "I've arranged a promenade through Central Park tomorrow. Let the city see how radiant the future Mrs. Vanderbilt can be."
My head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing into slits sharp enough to cut glass. If looks could kill, Bartholomew Vanderbilt would be arranging his own funeral instead of a courtship.
"A promenade?" I echoed. "You want to parade me around like a brand-new Tesla? Sorry, my exposure rates are a bit higher than a carriage ride."
"What—" He blinked, utterly lost of words, but I didn't give him room to recover.
I stood up, making sure to slam my shoulder into his arm. Hard. He stumbled back, his polished mask finally cracking just long enough to reveal a flash of fury underneath.
It was priceless.
"Oh, and Auntie?" I paused at the door. "If you send me to a finishing school, I'll be the one finishing it into ashes. Don't test me."