//CLARA//
I didn't sleep.
I spent the night pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged lion, whispering "Siri, end simulation" to the intricately carved walls.
Of course, Siri didn't answer.
By dawn, I had reached the sixth stage of grief: If I was stuck in a world without internet and electricity, I was going to make it everyone else's problem.
I'd spent the last hour of darkness scouring Eleanor's diary from my memory. The name Bartholomew Vanderbilt appeared like a stain on the pages. My actual great-grandfather. In Eleanor's time, he was a merger, a cold-blooded deal sanctioned by Casimir to consolidate their empires. But the diary told the truth. He was a cruel, absent husband who treated Eleanor like a trophy.
"Not this time, Bartholomew," I whispered, dropping onto the stiff mattress like a Victorian rag doll having an existential crisis. "If I'm going to live inside Eleanor's body. You're getting exactly three things from me: nothing, zilch, and get lost."
I paused, frowning at the ceiling.
"That's three, right? Good. I've always been great at math when it involves saying no."
A sharp knock jolted me. The door swung open to reveal a girl who looked barely fourteen.
This must be Hattie.
"Good morning, Miss Eleanor. I've brought your mourning dress."
I stared at the black abyss of heavy wool in her arms. It looked like it weighed more than my Coachella luggage.
"Absolutely not," I said, crossing my arms. "That fabric is a crime against my skin barrier. It's scratchy, suffocating, and the aesthetic of an expensive crow. I don't do that branding, Hattie."
Hattie blinked, looking like she was deciding between calling a doctor or a priest.
"But, Miss… you are in deep mourning."
"I am aware," I snapped, then softened my tone with a sugary, fake smile. "But if I wear that, I'll be irritable. Do you want me to be irritable when I meet the Master of the House? He seems like the type who appreciates a calm environment."
The threat worked. Fear of Casimir was a powerful motivator.
An hour later, I was cinched into a slightly more breathable silk mourning gown. It was still jet black, but the corset highlighted curves the original Eleanor had clearly tried to hide. My hair was an architectural feat of braids and pins, a beautiful, historically accurate helmet.
I made my way down the grand staircase, my heels clicking like a countdown against the marble. The house was a tomb of dark wood until I reached the breakfast room.
Casimir was already there. He sat at the head of a table long enough to host a bowling tournament, reading a newspaper the size of a bedsheet. The morning light caught the lethal line of his cheekbone.
Looking at him was like staring into the sun. You knew it was a bad idea, but you couldn't look away.
He didn't look up. "You're up late, Eleanor. Propriety dictates—"
"Propriety doesn't have a migraine," I interrupted.
I didn't sit at the far end where my place was set. I grabbed the heavy mahogany chair right next to him and gave it a violent yank. The screech of wood against marble was loud enough to wake the dead.
Casimir's fingers dug into the edges of his paper. I sat down with a flourish, overdoing the fragile ward act just to be extra.
"Oh, by the way, I don't go by Eleanor anymore," I said, reaching for the silver teapot. "Call me Clara instead."
Casimir lowered the paper slowly. His storm-gray eyes locked into mine with dangerous intensity.
"Since when were you called Clara? That is a name for a housemaid. You will respect the dignity of your station."
I bristled. Personally attacked by a 19th-century class system. Note to self: When I get home, Mom is getting a very loud phone call about her naming choices.
"I know how to respect my station," I replied, leaning forward until the scent of his skin, that sandalwood and expensive tobacco filled my lungs in all the right places. I let my gaze drop to his lips before drifting back to his eyes. "Besides... only you get to call me Clara. Doesn't that make you feel... special?"
I saw it. The pulse at the base of his thumb jumped. Caught you.
"I'm in a very fragile state today, Casimir," I purred, tracing the edge of my plate with one finger. "The shipwreck... the loss... the lack of a decent moisturizer... it's all just so taxing."
"You're now calling me by my first name," he rasped, sounding like he was strangling his own self-control.
I offered a nonchalant shrug. "Casimir is your name, or is it not?"
He searched my face, looking for the timid, predictable girl he remembered. His lips twitched. For a second, I thought the ice might actually melt.
"No," he replied, his voice dropping an octave. "You may call me whatever you like… but only when we are alone."
I raised an eyebrow. Only in private? The implication was heavy enough to sink a ship.
"Fine," I conceded. "Because calling you Mr. Guggenheim is far too exhausting for a woman in my condition."
He sighed deeply, a man defeated by his own ward.
"You are different. The girl I knew was… quiet. Reserved."
"She was boring," I countered, flashing him a sharp, knowing grin.
I picked up my fork, ready to finally stab something edible, or at least something that wouldn't stab me back. But before the tines could even breach the egg's suspiciously wobbly surface, the doors swung open.
A butler glided in, looking appropriately grave, carrying a silver tray upon which sat a single, wax-sealed envelope.
It looked official. It looked expensive. It looked like trouble with a capital T.
"A message from Mr. Vanderbilt, sir," the butler announced, his voice echoing in the cavernous room like a death knell.
The name hit me like a bucket of ice water straight to the face. My fork froze mid-air, hovering over my plate like a tiny, useless weapon. Vanderbilt. My great-grandfather, the philandering ghost who hadn't even been born yet but was apparently already making cameos.
Casimir took the letter, his eyes cutting to mine with an expression I couldn't read, cold, assessing, maybe even a little triumphant? Or was that guilt?
"It seems," Casimir said coldly as he broke the seal, "the world is not going to let you stay different for long."
The paper crackled as he unfolded it, and I watched his face for any tell. Nothing. The man had a poker face carved from Mount Rushmore.
I set my fork down with deliberate calm, even though my insides were doing the cha-cha.
"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Is he proposing already? Because I've had faster courtships that matched me based on my astrological sign."
Casimir's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"He wishes to call upon you. This afternoon."
"This afternoon?" I blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "It's barely breakfast. Does the man not believe in giving a girl time to emotionally prepare? I haven't even figured out how to work my corset without Hattie's help, and he wants to, what now? Window-shop the merchandise?"
"Eleanor." His voice dropped to a warning.
"Clara," I corrected sweetly. "And I'm just saying, if I'm going to be paraded around like a prize heifer, the least he could do is give me a head's up so I can mentally rehearse my I'm-not-interested speech."
Casimir's eyes flickered with something like annoyance? Amusement? I don't know, I can't read him like the diary. The man was an enigma wrapped in a very expensive suit.
"You will receive him. You will be civil. This is not a negotiation."
"Oh, I'll be civil, my dear uncle," I promised, picking my fork back up and attacking my eggs with renewed vigor. "I'll be the most civil little orphan you've ever seen. Butter wouldn't melt."
His gaze narrowed, clearly not buying a word of it.
I smiled sweetly and took a bite of my eggs, watching him over the rim of my silver fork.
Let him wonder. Let him burn.