//CLARA//

The mansion swallowed me whole the moment I crossed the threshold. A breathing kind of silence seemed to wait for me to trip.

I climbed the stairs, my hand trailing along the polished banister, and found Hattie inside my room, waiting by the window. Her fingers twisted the edge of her apron, her eyes scanning me the moment I came into view.

"You missed dinner," she said quietly. "I saved you a plate. It’s on the warmer."

"I’m not hungry."

She didn’t argue. She just crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out my nightgown, then moved to the vanity to unlace my corset. Her fingers were gentle, practiced. She’d done this a hundred times.

"The water’s still hot," she said. "If you want a bath."

"Tomorrow."

She nodded. Didn’t push. Just helped me undress and watched me eat a few bites of cold chicken before I pushed the plate away.

When I was finally in bed, the covers pulled to my chin, Hattie dimmed the lamp and paused at the door.

"Goodnight, Hattie."

She hesitated, just for a moment, like she wanted to say something more. Her lips parted. Closed. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe.

"Goodnight, Miss Eleanor."

Then she left, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Three days passed in a haze of preparation.

The mansion buzzed with seamstresses and florists and caterers. Aunt Cornelia stalked the halls, her demands growing more frantic with each passing hour. I kept to my room, pleading headaches and fatigue, and no one argued. The bride was allowed her nerves.

On the fourth morning, I descended the staircase to find chaos.

The drawing room had been transformed. Silks spilled across every surface, ivory satin, Chantilly lace, lengths of pearl-trimmed tulle draped over chairs and tables like the aftermath of a storm.

Three seamstresses bustled between the furniture, their mouths full of pins, their fingers working. Ribbons and buttons and spools of thread littered the floor like fallen leaves.

And at the center of it all stood Aunt Cornelia.

"There you are! Finally. We haven’t got all day. The fitting should have started an hour ago."

My stomach immediately churned soon as I spotted Bartholomew. He rose from the settee near the window, dressed in charcoal grey, his top hat tucked under his arm. His eyes swept over me.

"Eleanor," he said, stepping toward me. "You look radiant—"

He reached for my cheek, leaning in to press a kiss there.

I turned before he could make contact, my gaze catching on the gown behind him.

It sat on a dress form in the center of the room, illuminated by the morning light streaming through the tall windows. White silk cascaded in smooth folds, covered in pearls that caught the sun and threw it back in fractured sparks.

The bodice narrowed to a pointed waist, seams traced with delicate embroidery. The skirt fell in heavy layers, a cathedral train pooling on the floor like frozen milk.

Beside it hung the veil, yards of pristine tulle, edged with more pearls, ready to cover my face and trail behind me as I walked toward a future I hadn’t chosen.

I should have loved it. Any bride would have.

Instead, I felt shackles clamp around my ankles.

"Exquisite, isn’t it?" Bartholomew’s voice came from behind me, too close. "I selected the lace myself. From a convent in Belgium. The pearls are from my mother’s collection."

"How thoughtful."

I kept my eyes on the dress, counting pearls, anything to avoid his touch.

Aunt Cornelia clapped her hands.

"Bartholomew, dear, you must go. It’s terrible luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the ceremony. Everyone knows that."

"I hardly think—"

"Out." She steered him toward the door with surprising force. "We have fittings to do, and I won’t have you hovering. It’s bad enough Casimir keeps interfering."

Bartholomew glanced back at me. "I’ll see you at dinner, then."

I said nothing. My fingers traced the edge of the veil, avoiding the pearls.

The moment the door closed, Aunt Cornelia rounded on me.

"Strip."

I kept from groaning and obeyed. I shed my day dress until I stood in my chemise and drawers, my arms crossed over my chest.

The seamstresses descended.

Their hands were impersonal as they laced me into the corset. The boning bit into my ribs, cinching my waist until my breath came in shallow sips. I gripped the back of a chair as they tugged the laces tighter, my vision swimming at the edges.

"Hold still," one of them muttered around her pins.

They lifted the gown over my head, and the weight of it settled on my shoulders like a yoke. Silk whispered against my skin as they smoothed the fabric, pinning the bodice to fit the curve of my waist. Needles pricked my side. I flinched.

"Sorry, miss."

I stared at my reflection in the cheval mirror they’d positioned near the window. The woman staring back at me looked like a sacrificial offering dressed for the altar.

The seamstresses worked in silence, their fingers flying as they adjusted seams and secured hooks. When they finally stepped back, the gown fit like a second skin, tight through the bodice, flowing through the skirt, the train spreading behind me in a river of white.

Aunt Cornelia circled me, her critical eye missing nothing.

"Higher! No—are you trying to make her look like a ghost?" She pinched the fabric at my chest. "The waist needs to be tighter. TIGHTER. She’s not a milkmaid, she’s a bride!"

One seamstress knelt at my feet, marking the hem with chalk. Another worked at my bodice, her pins catching the light. The third approached with the veil.

The tulle settled over my face, blurring the room into a soft-focus dream. Through the gauze, I watched my own ghostly reflection.

Unrecognizable.

Erased.

The door opened.

Casimir stood in the threshold.

His morning coat stretched across those rigid shoulders, his hand still gripping the brass handle. His knuckles had gone white.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His gaze found me through the veil, and the world contracted to the space between us.

I saw his throat work as he swallowed. Saw the way his chest seized, the sharp inhale that lifted his lapels. His eyes traveled from the crown of my head, now obscured by tulle, to the pearls encrusting the bodice, along the cinched waist and flowing skirt, to the train that pooled at my feet like an offering.

Then his gaze caught on my hand.

Where the veil parted just enough to reveal my fingers.

And the ring he’d given me, glinting on my hand like a secret.

Something cracked behind his expression.

He looked at me the way a man looks at something he cannot have, something that will destroy him if he reaches for it and destroy him if he doesn’t, and all he could do was stand there and ache.

Aunt Cornelia’s voice cut through the silence.

"Casimir, what are you—"

"Out."

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t acknowledge her existence.

The seamstresses froze. Their hands hovered mid-air, needles suspended, mouths open in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said. Everyone. Out." His voice was controlled, but something dangerous lurked beneath it. "Now."

"You cannot simply—" Aunt Cornelia stepped forward, her hands on her hips. "This is highly improper. Eleanor is in her wedding gown, and you cannot expect me to leave the bride alone—"

"I am well aware of what is proper, Auntie." His gaze finally shifted to her. Whatever she saw there made her step backward. "And I am telling you to leave."

The seamstresses had already gathered their things, their hands trembling as they stuffed pins into their cushions. They scurried past Casimir like mice fleeing a hawk, their heads ducked, their eyes averted.

"Absolutely not." Aunt Cornelia stood her ground, her arms crossed. "If you have something to discuss with Eleanor, it can wait until—"

"Leave. Or I will have Higgins escort you out. The choice is yours."

"This is unbelievable."

She made a sound of disgust, but she followed the seamstresses into the corridor. Her protests faded as Casimir closed the door.

The lock clicked.

The sound echoed through the empty room.

"Casimir." I started toward him, the heavy skirt dragging against the floor. "You shouldn’t have done that. This would make matters worse. If anyone finds out—"

He ignored my words completely, crossing the distance between us in three strides.

His hands found my face through the veil, pushing the tulle aside.

And before I could even take another breath, his mouth crashed into mine.