Chapter 143: Chapter One Hundred-Forty-Three: Shattered Porcelain

//CLARA//

I stared up at him, my breath hitching. I felt a single tear escape and track slowly down my bruised cheek.

Bartholomew’s gaze dropped to it. A sick, fascinated light flickered in his eyes.

His hand knotted in my hair, pulling tighter until I felt strands snap at the root. His other hand remained iron-clad on my jaw, forcing my head back, exposing the pale column of my throat.

I tried to jerk away, but the pain kept me frozen. Every movement only made him pull harder.

Then, he leaned down. I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting the sting of another blow, but what came was infinitely worse.

I felt his breath first, sour and stale.

Then the wet, sandpaper slide of his tongue against my skin.

He licked the tear right off my cheek. The slow motion made my stomach heave with revulsion so thick I nearly gagged. I wanted to scream, to bite him, to tear his throat out, but the lightheadedness from the slap was winning.

"Delicious," he murmured against my damp skin. "I always knew you’d taste like bitterness."

For a heartbeat, he savored the violent shudder that racked my body, before uncoiling his hand unceremoniously. My head knocked against the floorboards with a dull thud, the sudden release leaving me breathless and reeling. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

I lay there gasping, my vision swimming with gray spots.

Bartholomew didn’t leave.

I heard the rustle of his coat, the shift of his weight, and then his hands were on me again. Wrenching me upward by the arms with a strength that made my shoulders scream.

My feet barely touched the floor before he hurled me backward. I crashed onto the bed, the mattress absorbing my weight with a muffled thump, the breath knocked clean from my lungs.

"Bartholomew—" I tried to push myself up, but he was already on me.

His knee pressed between my legs, his hands finding my shoulders and pinning me down.

I twisted beneath him, my hair tangling across my face, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

He nodded once, sharply, toward the door. "Leave us."

Aunt Cornelia stood in the threshold. I almost forgotten she had existed at all. Her face cold and unreadable. She looked at me sprawled and struggling on the bed and something flickered in her eyes.

Not pity. Never pity. Something closer to satisfaction.

"You brought this on yourself, girl," she said softly.

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with terrible finality.

Bartholomew’s attention snapped back to me like a hound catching a scent. His hands moved from my shoulders to my jaw again. His thumb tracing the bruise he’d already left there. I flinched away, and his grip tightened, forcing me to face him.

"You could have been my wife," he whispered, his breath hot against my mouth. "You could have been respectable. Instead you chose to humiliate me. And since you’ve already ruined your reputation."

His free hand dropped to my waist, fingers digging through the torn fabric of my dress.

"I see no reason to treat you like a lady."

I spat at him again, but he was ready this time, turning his head so it caught his shoulders instead. His laugh was low, humorless.

"Still fighting. Good. I want you to fight."

Then his mouth crashed against mine.

"No one is coming to save you, Eleanor," he grunted between forced kisses. "No one is coming at all."

It was an invasion. His teeth clicking against mine, his tongue forcing down my throat, the taste of him bitter and overwhelming.

I gagged, turning my head, but he followed, his hand at my jaw keeping me still. His other hand tore at my dress, the fabric ripping with a sound like tearing skin. Cool air hit my chest, my stomach, and I thrashed beneath him, my knee coming up but finding only the heavy wool of his coat.

I bit him instead.

My teeth sank into his lower lip with every ounce of fury I possessed, and he jerked back with a snarl, blood blooming where I’d broken skin. His hand left my jaw and struck my face with another backhanded blow that snapped my head to the side and filled my mouth with fresh blood.

"Whore," he breathed, touching his wounded lip. "You disgusting little whore."

I scrambled backward on the bed, my torn dress falling open, one arm crossing my chest while the other tried to hold the fabric together at my waist.

The gold ring on its chain had slipped behind my neck, tangled in my hair—hidden, thank God. I could feel it pressed against my nape like Casimir’s hand still with me.

Bartholomew advanced, his eyes tracking the exposed skin with a hunger that made my stomach revolt.

"You think there’s anything left to salvage once I’m finished with you?"

He snarled, his hands grasping my thighs, yanking me back beneath him with brutal force. His weight pinning me into the mattress until I could feel the springs groaning beneath us.

"No one, Eleanor. No one will touch you. No one will look at you. I’ll tell all of New York how you begged for it. How you opened your legs like the whore you are. You’re completely ruined."

"And that’s what you’re proud of?" I spat. "A man with your standing... and you still have to force yourself on a woman because no one would ever have you willingly?"

I smiled. It made the split in my lip sting, but I didn’t care.

"You’re just a pathetic boy playing with a title he didn’t earn. You’re not terrifying, Bartholomew. You’re just... pitiful, really."

His face twisted.

I kicked with everything I had, my bare foot connecting with his stomach. He grunted, doubling slightly, and I used that half-second to roll off the bed, hitting the floor hard.

My knee struck the boards with a crack that sent white-hot pain up my leg, but I didn’t stop. I scrambled forward, half-crawling, my dress trailing behind me like broken wings.

My hand closed around something solid. A vase. The flowers inside were long dead. I wrenched it free and turned just as Bartholomew reached for me.

"Don’t—" he started, but I was already swinging.

The vase connected with his temple with a sound like a melon dropped on stone.

I didn’t wait to see what he would do next. My hands were already finding the broken pieces, the sharp edges of porcelain where the vase had shattered.

I gripped one like a knife, feeling it slice into my palm, the pain suddenly became distant.

Bartholomew stood motionless, his eyes going blank for a moment. The impact seemed to suspend time. His hands still outstretched as if to grab me.

I watched as the first drop of blood trickled from the gash on his temple, a bright, visceral red that stained the pale skin of his forehead before tracking down into his eye.

He lifted a trembling hand, his fingers grazing the wound. When he pulled them away, they were coated in a thick, dark crimson. He stared at his own blood as if he’d never seen the color before.

"One step closer," I rasped, my voice sounding like it was being dragged over gravel.

I brandished the porcelain shard like a dagger, my knuckles white, my hand shaking with a lethal sort of adrenaline.

"One step closer and I will fucking slit your throat. I have nothing left to lose. Do you?"

I meant it.

We stood there, breathing hard. His eyes burned with rage.

Then without a word, he staggered backward. His shoulder hit the doorframe, and he caught himself, never breaking eye contact. His hand found the knob behind him, and he pulled it open, the hinges screaming in the quiet room.

He said nothing. Just that look distilled vengeance and then he was gone, the door slamming so hard that dust fell from the ceiling and the mirror at the corner rattled in its frame.

I stood there, the porcelain shard still clutched in my bleeding hand, my breath coming in ragged gasps that hurt my bruised ribs.

The room seemed to tilt, then steady.

"Damn you," I whispered to the empty room. "I’ll fucking kill you, bastard."

I looked at the shard before setting it carefully on the nightstand, my fingers refusing to unclasp for a moment, as if they knew they might need it again.

My hand was a mess. I turned it over, watching the blood well from the deep cut across my palm.

I found my feet, stumbling to the washstand. The water in the pitcher was cold, almost frozen, and I hissed when I plunged my hand into it.

The shock of it brought me back to myself. The clear water turned pink, then red.

My reflection in the mirror stand stopped me. I didn’t recognize myself at first. The girl there had wild eyes and a swelling jaw, her lip split and crusted with blood, her dress hanging in ribbons from her shoulders.

I touched my face with my uninjured hand, tracing the bruise blooming there like a dark flower. It hurt, yes. Everything hurt.

And I smiled.

"You’re a dead man, Bartholomew Vanderbilt."