//CLARA//

The dining room smelled of roasted duck, expensive wax, and Aunt Cornelia’s mounting migraines. It was supposed to be a birthday celebration, but the atmosphere felt more like a wake.

I had insisted on inviting Beatrice and Oliver. Aunt Cornelia had fought me on it for an hour, claiming that intimate family gatherings were the only proper way to celebrate my birthday and a marriage proclamation.

But I knew better. I needed a buffer. I needed people who didn’t look at me like I was a line item in a debt ledger.

"I still don’t see why we couldn’t have hosted a proper ball," Aunt Cornelia sighed, her fork poking at a piece of endive as if it had offended her.

She was in a foul mood, her lace collar cinched so tight I wondered if it was cutting off the blood flow to her brain.

"A birthday falling on the week of your banns? It’s a sign, Eleanor. We should have been celebrating your transition into the Vanderbilt name with half of New York in attendance."

"I spent the day at the foundation, Auntie," I said. "Helping women and children who actually have real problems. I think that’s celebration enough."

"Gallivanting," she muttered. "While your seamstresses were waiting for final fittings. You are becoming remarkably difficult to manage."

Across the table, Beatrice offered me a small, supportive smile, though she looked like she wanted to bolt for the door. Oliver, ever the gentleman, was busy trying to navigate the minefield of both Casimir and Bartholomew’s presence.

"I think it’s admirable," Oliver ventured, casting a cautious glance toward the man across me. "The work Prince Felipe is doing is quite revolutionary."

Bartholomew didn’t look up from his plate. He was sawing into his steak with the silver of his knife scraped against the china, making a sharp, screeching sound that set my teeth on edge.

"So, Eleanor."

Bartholomew entirely ignored Oliver’s comment and turned to me. He sounded in control, but I heard the white-hot fury simmering underneath.

"I was not aware you had plans at the foundation today. Your aunt was... concerned. And I find myself wondering why my future wife felt the need to spend her birthday in a slum rather than preparing for our future."

"We were visiting a charitable endeavor, Mr. Vanderbilt," I said, meeting his gaze over the rim of my wine glass. I made sure to include Casimir in that we. "Surely a man of your standing approves of the Guggenheim generosity."

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It never did.

"Charity has its place." He turned his attention to Casimir, and I saw his grip tighten on the knife until his knuckles went white. "But I wonder if this is the most... appropriate use of your time, Mr. Guggenheim. I am sure you must be very busy given the circumstances."

Casimir leaned back, looking bored. But I could see the way his muscles were coiled, ready to snap.

"Circumstances?" he asked quietly. The sound made the hair on my neck rise. "You’ll need to be more specific, Mr. Vanderbilt."

Bartholomew’s jaw clenched so hard I thought I heard a tooth crack.

"The wedding approaches," Bartholomew snapped. "Eleanor should be preparing herself. Not gallivanting about with... distractions."

He paused, his gaze dropping to my hand. The jade ring sat on my finger, the gold band catching the candlelight, practically screaming its presence.

"That’s a beautiful ring, my dear," Bartholomew noted.

My dear. The endearment felt like a slime trail across my skin. It revolted me in ways I couldn’t explain. I kept my hand on the table. I didn’t flinch.

"It was a gift."

"From whom?"

"None of your concern," I replied.

The table went silent. Even the sound of the clock ticking in the hallway seemed to amplify. Beatrice looked down at her lap. Oliver suddenly found his water glass very interesting.

Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed into slits.

"It’s not proper for a woman to wear such a ring before her wedding. Especially not a gift from another man. It speaks of... attachments."

I set down my fork with a loud clack.

"The banns proclaimed in church last Sunday aren’t chains, Mr. Vanderbilt." I tilted my chin, letting my voice carrying across the room with a cold, sharp clarity. "Until I speak vows at an altar—if I ever do—my body, my choices, and my heart remain my own."

Aunt Cornelia’s fork paused mid-air. She looked like she was about to have a stroke.

"Eleanor!" Her voice was a hissed warning. "You do not get to disrespect your fiancé like that. Not in front of guests."

I took a deep breath, picking up my knife and stabbing my meat with a contained fury that made the table shake slightly.

"I mean no disrespect, Auntie. I am merely stating facts."

"Facts that will get you nowhere," she snapped. "If your husband-to-be says you cannot wear another man’s ring, then you throw the damn thing away and apologize for the lapse in judgment. It is a matter of decorum."

"Then I suppose I shall have a very long list of apologies," I bit back.

I turned my head, glaring directly at Bartholomew. I wanted him to see exactly what kind of headache he was signing up for.

"Because I won’t be taking it off. Not ever. He can try to cut the finger from my hand if he needs the ring that badly."

Beatrice let out a tiny, stifled gasp. Oliver’s eyes were wide.

Bartholomew’s smile didn’t waver, but the rage behind his eyes was a promise of retribution—the look a man gives a horse he intends to break.

"I see," he said softly.

"Do you?" I challenged.

Under the table, I felt a hand heavy on my knee. Casimir’s fingers tightened, digging into the silk of my skirts. It was a warning to stop, or maybe it was encouragement to keep swinging. I couldn’t tell, but the heat of his touch was the only thing keeping me from screaming.

Bartholomew didn’t break eye contact with me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, with practiced composure, he turned to Aunt Cornelia.

"The roast is exceptional, Cornelia. You must give my compliments to the chef."

The tension didn’t leave. It just settled into the corners of the room like poisonous gas. The conversation shifted to mindless talk of the opera and the weather, but nobody was fooled. We were all just waiting for the explosion.

By the time the dinner finally ended and I reached the grand staircase, I felt like I’d been through a war. My corset felt ten sizes too small. My head was throbbing.

Casimir found me at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t say a word at first, his hand just lingering on my waist, pulling me into the shadows of the alcove.

"You shouldn’t have provoked him."

"Someone should," I snapped, turning in his arms. "He thinks he can bark orders and I’ll just roll over. He thinks he owns the air I breathe."

"I’d rather it not be you," Casimir murmured, his thumb brushing over my jawline. He looked tired. "Not yet. Not when we’re this close."

He leaned down and kissed my temple, a soft, lingering touch that made my knees weak.

"Happy birthday again, little bird. Rest now. You’re going to need your strength."

He moved past me toward his wing without looking back. I watched him go, every instinct in my body screaming at me to follow him, to lock ourselves in his room and let the world burn outside.

But I couldn’t. Not with Gary hiding in a flat and a dead girl’s name pinned to my chest.

I forced my feet toward my room. My bed was turned down, a fresh nightgown laid out, but I couldn’t sleep. I paced the floor until the candles burned low.

The next morning, a letter was waiting on my desk.

The parchment was thick, the ink slightly smudged. I recognized the handwriting immediately. Mr. Cromwell.

Miss Thorne,

I’ve found something about Elias Russell. Something you need to see. Come immediately. Do not be followed.

—Cromwell

I read it twice. Then I folded it and tucked it into my sleeve. My heart was thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I didn’t wait for Hattie. I grabbed my darkest cloak, wrapped it around my shoulders, and slipped out of the mansion into the grey, biting chill of the morning.

Casimir’s voice rang in my head. "Do not put yourself in danger."

I’m sorry, Casimir. But the warning came a lifetime too late.