//CLARA//
Casimir left the next morning. Seven days of silence followed, and I learned exactly what emotional whiplash felt like.
I woke each morning with the ghost of his touch. I touched the fading bruise on my breast where his teeth had been and felt the ache of unfinished business settle deep in my bones.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and withdrawal reinforces desire. But sowhere between day three and four, everything collapsed.
I missed him. Not as a ans to an end. I just missed the impossible tension of standing next to a man who made every nerve feel like live wire.
On the seventh day, his carriage appeared. I watched from my window, waiting.
Nothing.
Dinner that night was even worse than I thought. Casimir sat at the head of the table and did not look at once. He discussed business with Bartholow—who had materialized like the bad penny he was—and behaved as if I did not exist.
On the tenth day, Aunt Cornelia descended with news.
"You’ll be coming with us to the Sterling-Worth Autumn Ball. Mr. Vanderbilt will be there."
I looked at the invitation and resist the urge to groan. "I’ll need a new dress."
Her smile turned into a razor. "I have it commissioned already."
The night of the ball ca in a blink.
I stood before my mirror in deep erald silk that left my shoulders bare and clung to every curve. My hair was an architectural masterpiece. I looked devastating enough that n did stupid things.
Hattie stepped back, eyes shining. "Mr. Guggenheim won’t know what to do with himself tonight, miss."
"That’s the idea," I murmured.
Though at this point, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to look or if I wanted to make him regret not looking.
The ballroom was a sea of silk and candlelight. I entered on Aunt Cornelia’s arm and felt the weight of a hundred eyes assess , price like livestock. I smiled my brand smile, the one I’d perfected for red carpets.
Bartholow barricaded within minutes, and I have to endure him with the patience of a saint, parrying his complints with sweet indifference, letting my gaze drift past him to scan the crowd.
I found Casimir instantly.
He stood across the room, surrounded by n in expensive suits, his dark coat a slash of shadow against the candlelight. He wasn’t looking at . And when he did, he went utterly still.
His champagne glass halted halfway to his lips. For one suspended mont, there was only him, frozen mid-motion, caught completely off guard.
I extracted myself from Bartholow and slipped through the crowd toward the terrace doors, needing air. But before I reached them, a voice stopped .
"Miss Thorne? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced."
I turned. The man who approached was younger than Casimir, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile that crinkled the corners of his face. His bearing was confident but not arrogant.
"Oliver Whitfield," he introduced himself, taking my hand with a gentle bow. "I’ve been watching you evade your aunt and Mr. Vanderbilt all evening and found myself desperately hoping you might evade instead."
I laughed, a real laugh, surprised out of .
"That’s the most honest opening line I’ve heard since I arrived in this century."
His eyebrows rose. "Since you arrived in this century? That’s a rather specific tifra."
I’d slipped, but I didn’t care. He wouldn’t understand anyways.
"Let’s just say I’m new in town. Still learning the local customs. Is it considered rude to openly mock soone’s cravat choice, or is that reserved for close friends?"
Oliver’s laugh was warm.
"Generally reserved for close friends, though I’m willing to make an exception for a few gentlen here tonight."
We talked for twenty minutes. Oliver was charming in a way that felt genuine, not the practiced seduction of Bartholow or the brooding intensity of Casimir, but sothing lighter. He asked my opinions. He listened. He laughed at my jokes. When I made a reference he didn’t understand, he asked questions instead of pretending.
It was refreshing.
When he asked to dance, I said yes without thinking.
On the dance floor, whirling through a waltz, I felt eyes on . I glanced toward the edge of the room and found Casimir watching, his face carved from stone, his champagne forgotten.
Then an idea suddenly sparked. Petty? Absolutely. Deserved? One hundred percent.
I smiled at Oliver, the kind of smile I used to deploy for paparazzi when I wanted to make an ex jealous. I leaned closer, let my hand linger on his shoulder, laughed and touched his arm. I was good at this. I’d spent years performing desire for caras.
Performing it for Casimir was almost too easy.
Oliver played along beautifully. Whether he sensed my ga or simply enjoyed my company, he matched my energy, spinning through the waltz with increasing flair.
The weight of Casimir’s gaze grew hotter. I felt it like a brand against my skin.
The dance ended. Oliver bowed, asked if I’d like refreshnts, and I was about to accept when a hand closed around my wrist.
Casimir.
He barely look at Oliver—just enough to be rude—suddenly I found myself drawn against his side.
"Mr. Whitfield." His voice was ice wrapped in velvet. "Forgive the intrusion. Family matter."
Oliver’s eyes flickered between us, but instead of retreating imdiately, he smiled at .
"Miss Thorne, this has been the highlight of my evening. I do hope we’ll have occasion to continue our conversation. Perhaps a walk in the park soday soon? I’m told I give excellent comntary on the quality of passing pigeons."
I laughed, genuinely chard. "I’d like that, Mr. Whitfield. You’re the first person who’s made forget I’m hosick."
"Then I shall consider it my solemn duty to distract you further." He lifted my hand and brushed a kiss across my knuckles. "Until we et again."
He bowed and lted back into the crowd, leaving with a smile still tugging at my lips.
"Hosick?" The word ca out from him clipped like a blade wrapped in velvet. "I never knew you were hosick."
I turned to find Casimir, and the smile fell. He’s standing too close. The warmth I’d felt with Oliver evaporated under the frozen intensity of his gaze.
I rolled my eyes. Of course that’s what he latched onto.
"Uncle." I let the title drip with saccharine sweetness I didn’t an. "I thought you’d forgotten I existed. Ten days of silence, and now you’re dragging away from perfectly pleasant company? That’s not how avoidance works."
He scowled. "Are you flirting with Mr. Whitfield?"
The question was so absurd, so perfectly hypocritical, that I laughed incredulously.
"Why do you care? He’s an eligible bachelor. I’m a young lady. The ink hasn’t dried on Mr. Vanderbilt yet, or have you forgotten?" I let my smile turn razor-edged. "Maybe he’s a better replacent. Don’t you think?"
That landed hard on him. I saw it hit, the way his jaw locked, the way sothing dark and dangerous slid behind his eyes. The silence between us went from cold to arctic.
"Co with ." It wasn’t an offer, more like a demand, instantly dropping the argunt.
"I’m sorry, I don’t want to—"
"Clara." My na sounded like a warning, low and dangerous enough to send a shiver down my spine despite every logical thought screaming at to hold my ground.
I tilted my head, savoring the mont the way I’d savor the last sip of an expensive cocktail with full awareness of the consequences.
"Make ."
For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually do it. Instead, his grip on my wrist tightened, and he moved.
I stumbled after him, my heeled slippers skidding on the marble.
"Casimir—what are you doing—"
He didn’t stop. He pulled through the terrace doors, past the gossiping socialites, down a gravel path away from the house entirely. The music faded. The night closed around us.
We erged into a hedge maze. The tall, manicured walls of green that blocked out everything but the stars. He pulled deeper, around corners, through passages, until we stood in a small clearing at the maze’s heart.
He stopped, releasing my wrist then turned.
"Casimir—"
His hands were on and pinned against the hedge, firmly enough that I couldn’t move. The pruned branches rustled beneath , pressing into my bare shoulders through the silk. His body trapped mine, heat searing through layers of fabric.
"What are you—"
His mouth slamd into mine. Whatever I’d been about to say scattered like glass. Every clever thought I’d ever had evaporated.
This one is not like the drunken state of him. This was possession. A man staking a claim he’d been too afraid to make. He pulled back just far enough to speak, his lips brushing mine with every word.
"If you ever smile at another man like that again—or let him look at you the way he did, I will burn this city to the ground. Do you understand ?"
My heart slamd against my ribs. I should be triumphant. I should be smug. I’d won.
Instead, I was breathless, trembling, utterly undone.
"Took you long enough," I whispered.
He kissed again, and the hedge maze swallowed us whole.
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