//CLARA//

The train hissed to a stop at Newport, Casimir’s hand a burning brand at the small of my back. The air smelled of salt and privilege, but all I could feel was the heavy, cooling slickness of him tucked beneath layers of Gilded Age propriety.

The Goulds hadn’t just sent a carriage. They’d sent a fucking fleet.

Aunt Cornelia surveyed the waiting servants like livestock at a bargain market. She remained glacially silent as the Goulds approached—he in a morning coat losing a fight with his waistline, she in pearls that could’ve funded a coup.

Their smiles were too wide, possessed by that desperate brightness of people who had built an empire instead of just waking up inside one.

They were new money. In her world, if your great-grandfather hadn’t owned half of Manhattan, you were a glorified squatter with a high budget.

But in my opinion? Money is money. Whether it’s from a goddamn inheritance or your own blood and sweat, it all spends the same.

I wouldn’t even be in this simulation-slash-real-life hellscape if I hadn’t lost that bet to my mother for my inheritance and found that stupid diary in the attic. But hey, at least the costumes are top-tier.

"Mr. Guggenheim and Miss Cornelia Guggenheim, such an honor," Mrs. Gould trilled, her gloved hand crushing both Casimir’s and Aunt Cornelia’s with surprising strength.

She turned to me, her eyes already scanning for value. "And this lovely young lady?"

"Miss Eleanor Thorne, my ward," Casimir supplemented, stepping in before Aunt Cornelia’s jaw-grinding became audible.

The second the Goulds turned to greet the rest of the party, the venom dripped from the old bat.

"The Gould hospitality is legendary," she commented sharply. "Though I confess, I find Newport’s... expansiveness rather wearying after the restraint of older enclaves."

Translation: Your seventy-room mansion is tacky, and you are trying too hard to buy breeding with a check.

The Goulds’ cottage—er, mansion was a limestone fortress dropped onto the Rhode Island cliffs. Inside, chandeliers dripped crystal like frozen waterfalls. The marble was so polished I could see my own cleavage.

"Your rooms are in the east wing, with views of the ocean," Mrs. Gould announced. "I thought Miss Thorne might prefer the blue suite—it brings out the warmth in her eyes, if I may say so."

Aunt Cornelia’s hand clamped onto my elbow.

"Eleanor will share my adjoining rooms. A young lady requires... supervision in unfamiliar environments."

Just like that, the leash snapped taut, pulling me back into a cage of constant scrutiny.

I glanced toward the staircase. Casimir was standing by the newel post, his coat rigid across those broad shoulders. Our eyes met across the expanse of imported marble, a brief collision of everything we’d done and everything we were about to be denied.

I looked away first. Between the corsets, the supervision, and the lingering evidence of Casimir still clinging to my skin, I couldn’t breathe.

I needed air, somewhere that didn’t feel like a trap.

"I think I’ll explore the gardens," I murmured, already stepping back. "Just for a moment."

I didn’t wait for permission. I excused myself from Aunt Cornelia’s opening barrage of social maneuvers and slipped out a set of French doors into the gardens.

The view took my breath away. It was spectacular.

A sprawling maze of manicured hedges led toward the cliffside, overlooking an ocean so blue and unpolluted it looked like a postcard from a world that hadn’t been invented yet. No smog. No plastic. Just the crashing Atlantic waves.

I walked toward the edge, already mentally cataloging the private coves below.

I am definitely going for a swim later, I thought, leaning against a stone balustrade. To hell with the jellyfish.

"It is a view that makes one feel quite small, is it not?"

I jumped, spinning around so fast I nearly lost my hat.

Standing a few feet away was a man who looked like he’d been AI-generated for the cover of Vogue Hommes. He was handsome in that effortless, symmetrical way that usually requires a professional lighting crew—sharp jawline, dark, intelligent eyes, and a tailored coat that cost more than a small house.

"Jesus," I breathed, recovering my heart rate. I gave him a dry, lopsided smile. "You’ve got a real talent for the stealth-entry. Is that a Newport hobby, or just yours?"

The man blinked, a flash of genuine amusement crossing his face.

"Stealth? No. I simply thought the ocean deserved a witness."

"Well, it’s got two now," I said, turning back to the water. "It’s gorgeous. Almost makes you forget the house behind us is currently a battlefield of egos and social ladder."

He laughed and stepped up beside me.

We fell into a casual rhythm, talking about jellyfish of all things. I had no idea how we landed on the topic, but I was not complaining. Still, I noticed he was watching me with a strange, perplexed intensity.

"I realized I’ve been hogging the conversation and I haven’t even introduced myself," I said, offering a hand. "I’m Eleanor Thorne. I’m with the Guggenheim party."

He took my hand, his thumb grazing my gloved knuckles in a way that felt a little too practiced to be accidental.

"A pleasure, Miss Thorne. I am Felipe. Felipe de Borbón."

I nodded, the name ringing absolutely zero bells in my brain. Aunt Cornelia had made me memorize a list of important names, but apparently, she had missed a few.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. de Borbón. You a friend of the Goulds, or just another cottage stowaway?"

He chuckled, his eyes dancing. "Something like that."

Before I could press him on what something like that actually meant, a man in a stiff, charcoal suit approached us, looking like he’d been sucking on lemons all morning.

He bowed so low I thought his forehead might hit the gravel.

"Your—"

"Not now, Mateo," Felipe cut him off swiftly with a casual hand flick without looking.

His eyes stayed locked on mine.

"Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a very important briefing on the local jellyfish population?"

The man blinked, looked at me like I was a strange new species of insect, and then stepped back with a curt nod.

Felipe gave my hand one last, lingering squeeze.

"Duty calls, Miss Thorne. I’m afraid the stowaways have work to do. But I suspect our conversation is far from over."

He offered a little half-smile before excusing himself, leaving me standing there wondering why a random guy named Felipe had an assistant who bowed like he was meeting the Pope.

The real theater didn’t begin until dinner.

Aunt Cornelia was in her glory, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. I took my place at the massive, candle-lit table, only to find the stealth-entry guy from the garden pulling out the chair right next to me.

"Mind if I sit here, Miss Thorne?" he asked, though he was already settling in.

"Be my guest. I don’t think the seat’s taken," I whispered back, smoothing my napkin over my lap.

Mrs. Gould stood at the head of the table, her voice beaming with the kind of pride only a successful social climber can achieve.

"Before we begin, it is my distinct honor to introduce a surprise addition to our season. May I present His Royal Highness, Prince Felipe de Borbón, third son of the Spanish crown."

The room went deathly silent, and for a split second, I genuinely thought I might slide right off my chair.

Oh. My. God. I glanced sideways.

Felipe was looking straight ahead, his royal mask perfectly in place, raising his wine glass.

"Thank you for your warm hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Gould. I very much appreciate it."

Aunt Cornelia’s eyes went wider than saucers, her gaze darting between me and the Prince with a look that suggested she was already picking out the wedding china.

But it was Casimir’s burning gaze I felt.

He was sitting three seats down. He wasn’t looking at the Prince. He was looking straight at me.

It was a single, lightning-strike glance.

"I apologize, Miss Thorne. I wasn’t exactly forthcoming earlier," Felipe murmured, leaning in just enough that the heat from his shoulder bled through my sleeve.

I was paralyzed.

My brain was a frantic slideshow of every period drama I’d ever watched, trying to remember if I was supposed to curtsy, bow, or just back away slowly without tripping over my own train. I’d been trained for high-society snobbery, but I definitely hadn’t been briefed on Literal Royal Protocol 101.

I forced my eyes away from Casimir’s suffocating stare and managed a tight, shaky smile.

"A warning would have been nice... Your Highness," I croaked.

The title felt heavy and ridiculous in my mouth.

"You look lovely, by the way," he complimented, loud enough to carry just far enough down the table. "And please. After our briefing on the jellyfish? You must call me Felipe."

Every eye at the table pinned me to my seat. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

The tension in the room stretched thin between the Spanish royalty to my left and the man further down to my right, dark as pitch, who looked like he wanted to burn the entire table down.