//CLARA//

The sun was bleeding out across the western horizon, staining the New York skyline a bruised, angry crimson by the time I reached the mansion.

I slipped through the servant’s door, my lungs still burning from the sprint across the cobblestones, my boots caked in the gray slush of the city. I thought I was home free, just a quick dash up the back stairs to hide the soot on my face until a shadow blocked the light.

Aunt Cornelia was fuming. Her face was a shade of mottled purple that suggested she was seconds away from a permanent state of rage.

"Eleanor! You have humiliated this family for the last time! The seamstresses waited—the lace was losing its luster in the fading light—where have you—"

"A delivery for Miss Eleanor. Urgent."

She was just drawing breath for a barrage that probably would’ve lasted until the wedding night when Higgins appeared, cutting her off. He held a silver tray out between us like a shield, a small, crumpled square of paper resting on it.

I snatched it. My hands shook as I unfolded the single, jagged scrap.

Help...—G

My heart didn’t just sink. It stalled. The ink was rushed, the G trailing off like his hand had been forced. Before Aunt Cornelia could even finish her sentence, I pivoted on my heels and bolted back out the door.

"Eleanor! Come back here this instant! Higgins, stop her!"

I heard the heavy tread of three footmen behind me, but I didn’t care.

I hit the street and hailed a passing carriage with a desperation that must have looked like a manic episode. I threw a handful of coins at the driver before I was even inside.

"Mulberry Street! Now! I’ll double it if you don’t stop for anything!"

The ride was a blur of rattling wheels and my own frantic heartbeat. I reached the cobbler’s shop in record time, skipping stairs two at a time, my feet almost floating as I crested the landing.

I didn’t stop to listen. I didn’t think about Syndicate thugs waiting on the other side. I just kicked the door open.

The wood splintered at the latch, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. It swung inward, revealing the cramped room I’d expected. Gary’s rented space with its narrow bed and scarred table and the smell of leather drifting up from below.

What I didn’t expect was the man sitting across from him.

Casimir.

I froze. My blood went cold, then colder, until I wasn’t sure I was still breathing.

He sat in the single chair positioned opposite Gary, his dark coat immaculate despite the cramped surroundings, his shoulders rigid as marble. His hands rested on the table before him, fingers loosely interlaced, but I could see the whiteness of his knuckles where he gripped his own flesh. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

His face betrayed nothing. No anger. No surprise at my dramatic entrance. Just that flat, assessing stare that made me feel like a specimen pinned beneath glass.

And Gary—poor, terrified Gary—sat across from him looking like a mouse trapped in a cage with a very patient wolf. His face was pale, his hands trembling where they gripped his knees beneath the table. His eyes darted to me the moment I appeared, and his mouth opened.

"Thank God, Clara," Gary croaked. "I didn’t—he just showed up—I didn’t tell him anything—"

The name left his lips before he could catch it.

"Clara?" I saw Casimir’s eyes snap toward Gary. Sharp and dangerous. Like he was deciding where to make the first incision. "You do not get to call her Clara."

Gary flinched. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his features as he glanced between us. I stared at him through Casimir’s shoulder, my heart hammering, and subtly shook my head.

I mimed Eleanor with my lips, a desperate, silent plea.

Gary realized his mistake immediately. His face went pale, and he stumbled over the correction.

"Eleanor. I meant Eleanor. I’m sorry—I don’t know why I said—"

He swallowed hard. "Eleanor. Right. Eleanor."

Casimir’s gaze didn’t leave him. The silence stretched, thin and brittle.

Gary’s eyes darted to mine. He looked like he was about to glitch.

I stepped inside, letting the broken door swing shut behind me. The room felt smaller than before, the air thicker, charged with something I couldn’t name. I forced myself to cross to the table, to stand between them, to find my voice beneath the lump in my throat.

"How did you—" I started, addressing Casimir. "Why are you here?"

"I received a cryptic message of what you have been up to." His eyes flicked to me for a moment before going back to Gary. "I thought it prudent to investigate. Though I believe I have my answer. You’ve been keeping a slimy eel in a box."

Gary swallowed audibly.

I pulled out the second chair and sat. There was too much to explain, too many threads to weave together, and Casimir’s stare made it impossible to think clearly. But I had to try.

"There’s a syndicate," I began. "Elias was involved with them—debts, mostly, but it’s more than that. They’re organized. Connected. He owed them significant sums, and when he couldn’t pay..." I trailed off, remembering the ransacked apartment, the torn ledger, the men who’d waited in the dark to catch me. "They came collecting. And now they think he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know about."

Casimir’s expression didn’t change. "And does he?"

"He doesn’t remember." The lie slipped out before I could examine it. "They did something to him—drugged him, most likely—and when he woke up, he couldn’t recall anything. His own name. Where he was. How he got there."

I pressed on, building the fabrication brick by brick. "He woke up in an alley near the docks with no memory of the past weeks. He doesn’t know what was done into him or what he might have seen."

Gary’s eyes widened, but he had the sense to stay silent.

Casimir turned that flat stare toward him. "Amnesia."

"Yes."

"Convenient."

"It’s not convenient," I insisted. "It’s terrifying. He doesn’t know who’s hunting him. He doesn’t know what he might have said or done while he wasn’t himself."

Casimir’s fingers tightened against each other, the knuckles blanching further.

"Why would I help someone who made a mess of his own affairs? Who involved himself with criminals and debtors and then claims he cannot remember any of it?"

"Because he didn’t choose this." My voice rose, growing more frustrated. "He was dragged into it by accident. Elias was just a means to an end, another body to use and discard to masked some evidences. You can’t hold him responsible for things he doesn’t remember doing."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Casimir studied Gary with that unreadable gaze, and I could see the other man practically vibrating with fear beneath the scrutiny.

Then Casimir’s attention shifted back to me, and something in his expression shifted, a small crack in the mask, brief as a blink.

"What aren’t you telling me?"

The question landed like a blade. I kept my face still, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.

"Nothing. I’ve told you everything important."

He held my gaze for a long moment, and I could feel him searching, probing the gaps in my story, the places where truth had been sanded smooth and replaced with careful omissions. But he didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair.

I took a deep breath and gambled everything I have right now.

"We were running away. I was hoping Elias could come with us."

Casimir didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised. He just sat there, looking like a king who had accidentally stepped into a slum, his face an impenetrable mask of charcoal and shadow.

"The wedding proceeds as planned."

I blinked. Then blinked again. The words didn’t make sense. They bounced off my skull like stones.

"What?"

"You’ll walk down the aisle. I’ll meet you at the altar."

My lungs forgot how to work. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles going white, because suddenly the room was tilting and I needed something solid to hold onto.

"But how—" My voice cracked. "I’m not going to marry Bartholomew! You proposed to me, Casimir—"

"Do you trust me?"

He cut through my protests like a knife through silk. The question hung in the air between us, stripped of preamble or explanation.

Just four words, delivered with the same flat certainty as everything else he’d said tonight.

I didn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

The answer came from somewhere deeper than thought, despite every rational argument against it. I trusted him. I didn’t understand him, couldn’t always predict him, but trust wasn’t about understanding. It was about the way his presence made the world feel less likely to collapse beneath me.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between us. His hand cradled my face, palm warm against my cheek, fingers curving along my jaw. His fingers spanned, threading into the hair at my temple. And just like that, I forgot how to breathe.

"Then you’ll walk down the aisle," he whispered, his thumb brushing my skin. "You’ll wear that damn wedding gown, Clara. And I’ll meet you at the altar."