//CLARA//

I stood frozen in the archway, my heels cemented to the marble floor. Three sets of eyes burned into me. Aunt Cornelia’s cold fury. Bartholomew’s smug satisfaction.

And Casimir’s... his was the worst. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t jealous or hurt. He was just... watching. Waiting for the first crack in my armor.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat was a desert, cactuses poking holes in my tonsils. How do you explain to a nineteenth-century possessive powerhouse that you were actually out getting a history lesson from your time-traveling cousin?

"How curious," Aunt Cornelia said, her tone dripping with artificial sympathy. "For a woman who seems to have something to say in every situation, you appear remarkably out of words. Perhaps your memory needs a little... encouragement."

I tried to speak. Nothing.

She didn’t even look at me. She just raised a gloved hand toward the shadows of the hall.

"Mrs. Jenkins? If you please. Enlighten us. I’m dying to know what kept Miss Thorne so occupied that she forgot the basic decencies expected of a lady."

The chaperone stepped forward, eager as a vulture. She didn’t even bother to hide her glee.

"Of course, my pleasure. Miss Thorne visited a shop on Fifth Avenue for boots and dresses," Mrs. Jenkins began, a little bit too enthusiastic through the silent drawing room. "That is where she met the young man. A stranger, Madam. Most certainly not a member of our circle."

My blood turned to ice.

"They seemed... utterly familiar," Mrs. Jenkins continued, heavy with implication. "They embraced. He spun her in the street like reunited lovers do. Then, she led him to a tea room near Gramercy Park. They huddled together in that shop for hours, whispering, heads bowed over scones as if they were conspiring. They looked like thieves planning a heist, Madam. I tell you, she was parading around Fifth Avenue with a total stranger as if she had no name left to protect."

All I could do was fix a cold glare on the version 2.0 of that ghastly old spider, wishing looks actually could kill.

"Is that so?" Aunt Cornelia’s eyes glinted with a predatory light.

"That was not—" I tried to interject, but she cut me off like I was background noise.

"I couldn’t hear the words, Madam," Mrs. Jenkins added, leaning in. "But the nature of their conversation was... intimate. Deeply so."

What the hell? We were talking about fast food and cursed jewelry and whether our ancestor was a witch. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them that the man was my cousin, the only person in this godforsaken century who actually knew who I was.

"Is this true, Eleanor?" Cornelia demanded.

But I can’t fight back. Not in this century. One wrong word and I’m hysterical, locked away in an asylum.

If Gary was right about the whole Salem bloodline thing, I’d have turned this entire drawing room into an ash tray by now. I’d have scorched them all to a crisp—except Casimir. He’s the only one I’d leave standing in the wreckage.

I looked at him. My pride was screaming, but my survival instinct won out. I looked at him, my eyes pleading—help me.

Something in his expression shifted. Almost imperceptible. A tightening of his jaw.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins," he said quietly. His voice didn’t rise, but the chaperone stopped talking instantly. "Your report was... thorough. Perhaps too thorough. I find it difficult to believe that a woman of your experience couldn’t tell the difference between a conspiracy and a wayward girl losing track of time. You’re dismissed. We will discuss your future in this house tomorrow."

The chaperone blinked, her triumph faltering. "But Mr. Guggenheim—"

"I said. You’re dismissed."

Her mouth snapped shut. She curtsied and retreated into the dark hallway like a kicked dog. I exhaled, but the reprieve was a joke.

"You still haven’t explained yourself, Eleanor," Cornelia said, her voice dropping an octave. "Who was he? Why were you—"

"Perhaps," I said, finally finding my voice, "you should explain something to me first. What is he doing here? At this hour?"

I pointed a trembling finger at Bartholomew.

Bartholomew’s smile curved into razor-sharp.

"I was informed you skipped the entourage selection this afternoon. An unfortunate absence. People are talking, Eleanor. The girls you were meant to lead are asking questions."

"I don’t care. Let them talk. I’m sure they managed just fine without me," I retorted. "I’m sure they’re all very good at sitting still and looking vacant. I’m just not in the mood for a group audition for Perfect Gilded Dolls today."

"You think you’re so clever." He stepped closer, invading my space and I instinctively stepped away from him. "When they’re done talking about your absence, they’ll start talking about your... companion. Your reputation is a delicate thing, Eleanor. You’d do well to remember that I am the only thing standing between you and social ruin."

"My reputation is none of your concern," I hissed.

"It will be." His voice dropped to a low warning. "Once we’re man and wife, the first thing I will do is tame that unbridled behavior. You’ll learn your place. One way or another, I will break that tongue of yours until you learn to speak only when spoken to."

The room went sub-zero.

"Get out."

Casimir’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the room like a blade. Bartholomew’s smug expression fractured. He stiffened, the cocky tilt of his head vanishing as he finally registered the lethal temperature of the room.

"Mr. Guggenheim—"

"I said. Get. Out." Casimir stepped forward, his shadow swallowing the space between them. "And that will be the last time you speak to her like that. Ever."

Bartholomew’s jaw clenched. "You seem to have forgotten yourself, Mr. Guggenheim. Eleanor is my bride-to-be. Do not overstep, or I might find a way to retaliate that even your wealth cannot fix."

Casimir didn’t flinch. He leaned in, the firelight catching the sharp, hollow lines of his face.

"Retaliate?" Casimir’s voice became a haunting whisper. "Threaten me one more time, Mr. Vanderbilt, and I will personally ensure your bowels decorate the gutter before the rats get their turn. Now, walk out of that door while you still have the legs to carry you."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the fire seemed to stop crackling.

"Casimir!" Aunt Cornelia rose, her fan snapping shut like a gunshot. "That is quite enough!"

She turned to Bartholomew, her voice smoothing into a forced, oily calm.

"Bartholomew, thank you for rushing here. Your concern for Eleanor’s wellbeing is noted. She will be dealt with accordingly."

Bartholomew ignored her entirely. He kept his eyes on Casimir, his face painted with a challenge that his pulse was clearly losing. A lone bead of sweat escaped his hairline, betraying the terror behind his smug stare.

Then he straightened his coat, smoothed his lapels, and walked out without another word. The heavy front door clicked shut, sounding like a guillotine.

"Eleanor, stay where you are. We’ll settle this at once," Aunt Cornelia began, her finger shaking as she pointed it at me. "The audacity of you... the banns are in a few weeks. You cannot bring disgrace—!"

"I’m tired, Aunt Cornelia," I cut her off, my voice trembling with adrenaline. "If you want to lecture me on the purity of my reputation, save it for breakfast. I’m sure it’ll go great with the dry toast."

I didn’t wait. I turned and dashed for the stairs, my skirts rustling frantically. I didn’t stop until I reached the landing. I took one look back.

Aunt Cornelia was still in the center of the room, looking like she was about to explode. But it was Casimir I was looking at. He was standing exactly where I’d left him, watching the empty doorway. He looked less like a man and more like a wolf that had just marked his prey.

Then, slowly, his gaze shifted up. He locked onto me. His face betrayed nothing.

I wanted him to follow me. I wanted him to storm up those stairs, pull me into his arms, and tell me he didn’t care about the stranger. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, his expression a wall I couldn’t climb.

Instead, I turned and disappeared into my room, slamming the door. I pressed my back against the wood, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had escaped. For now.

Bartholomew’s words stayed with me, rattling around in my head like a death sentence. This isn’t going to be a clean escape. I swallowed hard, staring into the dark.

It’s going to be a war.

I pushed off the door and crossed to the terrace, leaning against the cold stone baluster. The street below was empty. The gas lamps flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cobblestones.

Somewhere out there, Gary was probably huddled in his cramped bachelor’s pad, just as lost as I was.