//CLARA//

Surfacing from sleep felt like trying to swim through a vat of warm honey. I was floating, disconnected from my own limbs, drifting in a fog of silk and the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood.

Something warm pressed against my forehead, it was soft and lingering. I tried to open my eyes, but my lids were too heavy. Just as I started to lean into the touch, it vanished.

The warmth pulled away too soon. A soft whimper clawed at my throat as the heat retreated, followed by the muffled rhythm of footsteps moving away. A door clicked shut.

Then darkness took me again.

When I finally jolted awake, the sunlight hitting the floral wallpaper of my bedroom felt like a personal attack.

Ow.

A massive, thudding hangover blasted through my skull, pulsing behind my eyes with every heartbeat. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow, but as I moved, my body registered a different kind of pain.

It was the heavy, dull throb rooted deep between my legs that made every muscle twitch. My skin felt raw, over-sensitized. And my ass? My ass felt like I had been spanked into next Monday. Hot. Tight. Buzzing with the ghost of his palms. Even the silk sheets brushing against me felt like a fresh provocation.

I looked down. My nightdress was a ruined rag, torn straight down the middle, barely hanging off my shoulders. But I wasn’t cold. Wrapped around me like a protective cocoon was a heavy, expensive sheet—the first layer from a master bed that definitely wasn’t mine.

It wasn’t a dream.

He’d carried me back. How Casimir Guggenheim had managed to sneak me through a house full of prying eyes and into my own bed was a mystery I wasn’t prepared to solve with this headache.

I glanced at my side table. A folded piece of paper rested against the base of the lamp. I reached for it and unfolded it.

[You are still drenched. Drink the tea and be a good girl. I’m not finished with you yet.]

Hell, yeah, I was. My thighs were still slick with him, and his scent clung to my skin like an expensive cologne I wasn’t ready to wash off. The butterflies in my stomach staged a full-on riot. I kicked my legs under the covers, a manic grin tugging at my lips despite the pain.

God, I was hopeless.

I brewed the damn tea, thinking about how Casimir had become my period tracking app—constantly reminding me, marking the dates, putting little hearts on each night we had fucked.

I needed to get a grip.

A knock at the door made me scramble to hide the note and the torn lace.

By the time Hattie entered with a steaming pitcher for my bath, I was leaning back against the headboard, casually sipping the lukewarm dregs of my tea with the wide-eyed, artificial innocence of a choirgirl.

"You look peaked, Miss Eleanor," she said, reaching for my dress. "Let me help you out of that—"

"No!" I blurted out, clutching the sheet to my chest. "I’ve got it, Hattie. I... I can manage. Just the bath. Lots of lavender. And maybe some silence."

I couldn’t let her see.

She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the torn nightdress visible at my collarbone. Then she nodded and left.

I locked the door behind her and stripped off the ruined chemise. The mirror confirmed what I already knew. Bruises on my hips. Bite marks on my shoulder. A red handprint on my thigh.

I looked like I had been in a fight.

I sank into the hot water and let it burn the evidence away.

By the time I made it downstairs, the breakfast room was already occupied.

Oliver sat at the table, looking so small under the heated gazes between the two most judgmental people in New York.

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He had survived prison. He could survive eggs and scones.

Aunt Cornelia was sipping her tea as if it were laced with hemlock, and Casimir...

Casimir was flipping through the Herald as if he hadn’t spent the night treating me like his personal plaything.

I groaned, sinking into the chair next to Oliver and immediately massaging my temples.

"Coffee. Or tea. Or a guillotine. Whichever is fastest."

Casimir flicked his eyes toward me. It was a single, knowing stare—a look that practically replayed the moment I’d begged him to fuck me while he held my ankles above my head. I felt the heat crawl up my neck. I looked away, focusing on Oliver.

"How did you sleep?" I asked softly.

Oliver looked up, his eyes clearer than they’d been in days.

"It was the first night I didn’t wake up screaming, Eleanor. Truly. Thank you."

Guilt stabbed through my hangover. While he was finding peace for the first time since his arrest, I had been in the next room over, using his name to provoke a man into ravishing me.

I glared at Casimir. He didn’t even look up from the financial column. He just turned the page, the crisp snap of the paper sounding like a taunt.

"Is something wrong, Aunt Cornelia?" I asked, turning my irritation toward the easiest target.

The old bat was staring at Oliver with such contempt she looked like she might actually hiss.

She pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line, dropped her napkin onto the table, and stood up.

"Higgins," she snapped to the butler. "Prepare a tray for my room. I find the atmosphere in here has become... polluted."

She swept out of the room like a vengeful cloud of lavender. I shrugged and reached for a scone, eating it with a gleeful appetite. I felt two sets of eyes pinning me to my seat.

"What?" I asked, looking between them. "Is there something on my face?"

Oliver cleared his throat.

"Eleanor, I should be going. I need to pack what little I have left and head for Newport. I can’t stay in your way any longer."

"Don’t be ridiculous," I said, waving a piece of scone. "We have work to do. When are you coming back so we can restart the Linotype project?"

Oliver froze. His expression twisted into something sad and broken.

"The Linotype is over, Eleanor. It’s gone."

"Gone?" I frowned, my headache forgotten. "Did Casimir break your fingers while I wasn’t looking?"

I shot a lethal glare at the man across the table.

"No," Oliver whispered.

"Then what? Did he bludgeon your head so hard you’ve developed amnesia? Do you not know how the machine works anymore?"

"No, it’s not that—"

"Are you an invalid? Can you not stand? Can you not think?"

"I am perfectly fine!" Oliver snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. "But Eleanor, be realistic. Every investor has pulled out. Every supplier has canceled our contracts. Mr. Chamberlain cut ties the moment the scandal hit the papers. Without capital, without a shop, without a name... the Linotype is just a pile of scrap metal and a dream that died in a jail cell."

I stopped chewing. I looked at his defeated shoulders, then I looked at Casimir, who was finally watching us.

I set the scone down and straightened my posture.

"The Linotype succeeded once," I said calmly. "And it will succeed again. I don’t care about Chamberlain or the suppliers. I will make this happen, Oliver. You provide the brain. I provide the path."

I turned to Casimir, flashing him a brilliant, honey-coated smile—the kind that usually meant someone was about to lose a lot of money.

"Right, Uncle? You were just telling me how much you wanted to diversify the Guggenheim portfolio into... printing, weren’t you?"

The room went very still.

Casimir lowered his newspaper. His gray eyes met mine. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Right," he clipped out, and returned to his paper.

Oliver looked between us, utterly confused.

I squeezed his hand and smiled.

"See? Everything’s going to be just fine."