//CLARA//

I felt like I was floating. Not the light, airy kind of floating you feel after a glass of expensive champagne, but the kind where the tether between your body and your mind has snapped, and you’re just... adrift.

The streets of New York were a blur, and I couldn’t focus on a single face. I didn’t want to go back to the mansion and see Casimir. I didn’t want to see Gary either.

What would I even say?

Hey, cousin, good news! The body you’re inhabiting owes a large fortune to some very scary people and also witnessed a murder. Oh, and the man I’m in love with might be connected to the syndicate hunting you. Sleep well!

No. He’d have a meltdown, and I simply didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for a Gilded Age tantrum.

Instead, I found myself at the factory. Smoke curled from the chimneys. The hum of the machinery was the only thing that felt real.

Oliver’s face lit up when he saw me.

"Eleanor! I didn’t expect you today," he said, stepping toward me. "Not that I’m not happy to see you. I am. I just—"

He stopped, tilting his head, his initial joy was quickly tempered by the sight of my pale, haunted expression. "Are you alright?"

I opened my mouth to say fine. The word died on my tongue.

"I needed air," I said instead. It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Oliver studied me for a moment. Then he crossed the room, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a small, neatly wrapped parcel.

"It’s late," he said, holding it out. "I’m sorry I couldn’t give this to you properly after that... eventful dinner last night. Belated happy birthday."

I took the package, my fingers fumbling with the string. Inside was a pair of gloves. Not the ostentatious, pearl-encrusted things Aunt Cornelia would have chosen. These were simple. Elegant. Dark grey leather, soft as butter, with delicate stitching along the seams.

"They’re beautiful," I said, and meant it.

"I noticed you like wearing gloves especially when touching things—dirty things at that," Oliver laughed, shrugging like it was nothing. "I thought... you should have something to add to your collection."

My throat tightened.

"Thank you, Oliver. Truly."

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable, but weighted.

I could feel him watching me, searching my face, his brow furrowing.

"Eleanor," he said quietly. "What’s wrong?"

I gave him a weak smile. The kind that was supposed to say I’m fine but probably looked like I was about to cry.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He ushered me into his office, closed the door, and pointed to the chair.

"Sit."

I didn’t argue.

The chair across from his desk was hard and wooden, nothing like the velvet cushions of the mansion, but somehow it felt more grounding. More forgiving. Oliver dragged his own chair around the desk and sat in front of me, close enough that our knees almost touched.

He reached out and took my hand.

"Now, talk to me."

I let out a long sigh. "I don’t want to marry Bartholomew."

Oliver’s brows lifted and then let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

"Eleanor, we’ve known that since the day the engagement was announced. You aren’t exactly a master of disguise when it comes to your disdain for that man. You look at him like he’s something you stepped in on the sidewalk."

I let out a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle. It came out hollow. "Yeah. I guess I wasn’t subtle."

We sat in silence for a moment. Somewhere in the warehouse, a press thumped. Men called to each other, their voices muffled by the walls. The world was still turning, even while mine felt like it was cracking apart.

"The Prince," Oliver ventured, breaking the silence tentatively. "Did he really not propose? Everyone was whispering."

I looked at him. There was no point in lying to Oliver. He was the only person in this century who looked at me and didn’t see a Thorne or a Guggenheim.

"He did."

Oliver blinked, stunned for a heartbeat before regaining his composure.

"Then why on earth didn’t you say yes?" His voice was gentle, not accusing. "He’s a good man. He’s a far better match than Mr. Vanderbilt. A prince, Eleanor. A crown."

"I can’t," I whispered. "It would be a lie. Felipe is far too kind to be used as an escape hatch. He deserves a heart that’s actually available."

Oliver’s eyes sharpened. "There’s someone else?"

I nodded once. The admission was simple and silent, yet terrifying.

"Okay. That makes sense." Oliver took a deep breath, his mind clearly working through the possibilities. "Then why don’t you go to Mr. Guggenheim? Tell him there’s someone else you want to marry. Surely he’d understand a match made for love over money."

I didn’t say a word. I just stared at him. I let the silence stretch between us, hoping—praying—he would see the truth in my eyes so I wouldn’t have to say the words out loud.

Oliver’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide as the realization hit him like a physical blow.

"Wait—you? You’re in love with... with your—"

He couldn’t finish the sentence. I lowered my gaze, the guilt of a thousand years sitting heavy in my chest.

"He’s in love with you too, isn’t he?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

"Well," Oliver said after a long moment, his voice surprisingly steady. "Actually, that isn’t as surprising as I thought it would be."

I snapped my head up, confused. "What? You aren’t... you’re not shocked?"

"I am," he admitted, "but the thought crossed my mind once or twice. The way he looks at you, Eleanor. He’s overprotective way beyond the duties of a guardian. He was ready to burn this city to the ground when you were kidnapped. He had me beaten to a pulp just to find you. He was ready to raise hell for you."

He smiled sadly. "He doesn’t look at you like a ward. He looks at you like his entire world."

"I see." My voice was small. "You’re not disgusted by me?"

"Why would I be?" Oliver squeezed my hands. "You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re both consenting adults, and as far as the law and God are concerned, there’s no blood between you. You cannot dictate who the heart chooses, Eleanor. You’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known."

He paused, his expression turning grave. "But you know that not everyone will see it that way."

"I know."

"That is why you can never go public," he said softly. "New York would tear you both apart."

I nodded, a single tear finally escaping.

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. But hearing someone else say it made it feel real. Made it feel like a death sentence.

"Don’t worry," Oliver promised, leaning forward. "Your secret is safe with me. Always."

That was it.

The wall I’d been holding up since the birthday dinner, since Mr. Cromwell’s office, since the moment I realized Casimir might be connected to the syndicate—it crumbled.

I didn’t care about the decorum. I leaned forward and pulled him into a tight hug, burying my face in his shoulder.

He smelled of ink and metal and the faint sweetness of the gloves he’d given me.

For a moment, I just breathed and let myself cry in silence.