MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 60 - Sixty: The Velvet Trap

//CLARA//

The carriage crawled through the city streets like a dying animal.

I had stood on the curb for twenty minutes after leaving the archive, waving down every passing conveyance like a castaway signaling a ship. Most ignored me. One driver looked at me and asked if I was lost. Another told me to try the omnibus. The one who finally stopped charged me triple and spent the entire ride glancing at me in the mirror like I might rob him.

I did not care. I just needed to get home.

By the time we reached the mansion, the sky had darkened with the promise of a storm. I slipped through the servants’ entrance. The hallways were tomb-quiet, the kind of atmosphere that usually preceded a jump-scare.

I stayed low, clutching my oversized widow’s hat to my chest like a shield, my sunglasses still perched precariously on the bridge of my nose. I looked like a woman who had just crawled out of a grave and was looking for the nearest bar.

I reached my room, slipped inside, and leaned my back against the heavy oak door, exhaling a breath I felt like I’d been holding since Nassau Street.

"Thank God, finally safe," I whispered to the empty air.

"Hardly."

I froze. My heart plummeted into my stomach and took up residence next to the leaden weight of the Thurston files.

Casimir stood in the center of the room, facing me, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes were a storm barely contained. Beside him, Hattie was standing by the dressing table, her face a mask of pure terror. Her hands were shaking so hard she looked like she might vibrate right through the floorboards.

"Miss Eleanor," she whispered.

"Leave us," I said.

The girl didn’t move. She looked at Casimir first, her eyes wide and pleading, waiting for permission from the man who actually owned the air she breathed. Casimir didn’t look at her. He didn’t blink. He just kept his eyes pinned on me—on my mud-caked skirts, my ink-stained gloves, and the ridiculous hat I was clutching.

He gave a single, microscopic nod. Hattie didn’t wait for another second. She scurried past me like a ghost, and vanished into the hallway.

My face was pale. I could feel it. My hands were still shaking. I pressed them flat against my skirts and willed them to be still.

"Where," Casimir began, with a dangerous rumble of his voice, "have you been?"

I didn’t answer. Not yet. I reached up and slowly slid the sunglasses off my face, folding them with hands that I forced to be steady. I set them on the vanity, then tossed the hat beside them. I looked at him through the mirror.

"I was out for a stroll, Casimir," I said, dripping with the bit of sarcasm I was able to muster. "Manhattan is lovely this time of year if you enjoy the smell of industrial waste and old secrets. You should try it sometime."

"You look like a common thief," he spat, his gaze raking over me. "You have spent the day in the gutters of this city, dressed like a maid, risking your reputation—and your life—on a whim. For what, Eleanor?"

I didn’t correct the name. I didn’t have the energy to remind him.

"I was out." I merely breathed. "Was that not enough?

"Do not play games with me, Clara."

Oh, so I’m back to being Clara now. God! This man.

I met his eyes from the reflection. "Then do not interrogate me like I am a criminal, Uncle."

The word felt like a slap. I watched his jaw lock so tight I thought the bone might snap. If he wanted to play the role of the controlling guardian, fine. I’d give him the title he deserved.

He stepped closer with one long stride and gripped my shoulders, turning me to face him. His breath hot on my face as he spoke.

"You left this morning in a disguise. You returned hours later, looking like this. You will not tell me where you went. You will not tell me why. And you expect me to stand here and say nothing?"

"You keep your secrets. I will keep mine."

"That is not the same." His voice somehow lost its edge.

"Is it not?"

He did not answer. He could not. Because we both knew the truth.

"Where have you been?" he asked again, quieter this time.

"I went for a walk. Happy?"

"Do you take me for a fool?" He laughed, a jagged, ugly sound that had nothing to do with humor. "Do you have any idea how many people in this city would love to use your theatrics as a knife against this house?"

"I went to Nassau Street." I tilted my chin. "What now? You’re going to cage me? Go on then, get this done with. You want to tie me to my bed? Fine. Tie me up. I’m right here now. You want to monopolize my life? You want me to sit here and embroider while you use the money you took from dead men to buy me silk dresses?"

I watched his eyes widen, just a fraction Almost too imperceptible.

The silence that followed was heavy, echoing with the rhythmic, as the violent sound of the rain started lashing against the glass.

"You have no idea what you are talking about," he whispered so low it was almost a hiss. "You’re playing with matches, Clara. Whatever you’re doing, you’re just inviting a fire you aren’t prepared to put out."

"Then maybe you shouldn’t have built the house out of kerosene," I countered. I walked to the table and slapped my ink-stained gloves down. "I found the name. Silas Thurston. Does that ring a bell? Or do you have so many ghosts in your closet you’ve started losing track of their names?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "How do you know that name?"

"Oh, please Casimir. You’re not that good in keeping secrets as well."

"Silas Thurston is a non-entity." He turned to the window, his back to me. "He is a grievance looking for a target. And you just gave him one."

"Is that what we’re calling it now? A grievance? His father took his own life because of you. You erased him, Casimir. Was that the standard operating procedure for the Guggenheims to remain at the top of the food chain, or did you just have a particularly boring Tuesday?"

"I did what was necessary to survive!" He whipped around. "This world is a slaughterhouse, Clara. You either hold the knife or you’re the one on the hook. I chose the knife. I chose it so people like you would never have to know the smell of the blood!"

"Oh, thank you, my noble hero!" I shoved his chest, my eyes stinging with a heat that wasn’t just anger. "Thank you for killing people so I can have a nice view of the park. Is that supposed to make me feel better? Am I supposed to kiss the hand that holds the knife?"

The words left my mouth before I could stop them. I saw him flinch, and something in my chest cracked. But I did not take it back. I could not. I turned away from him.

"You’re a monster, Casimir. And I’m just the latest thing you’ve collected. I bet you have a hands-off letter with my name on it already written, don’t you? Tucked away in a drawer for whenever I stop being adequate and start being a problem."

"I have never looked at you as a problem." His voice cracked on the last word with a sudden vulnerability. "I have looked at you as the only thing in this godforsaken place that didn’t have a price tag on it."

"How ironic, given you almost sold me to the Vanderbilts. And how funny enough I have given myself to you," I said, turning back to face him. "Because now? Now every time you touch me, I’m going to wonder if I’m just another asset you’re managing."

His face went pale. I had aimed for the wound. I had hit it. And I hated myself for it even as I watched him bleed.

He looked at me, and for the first time, the ruthless magnate was gone. There was just a man who had tried to build a wall around his heart and was watching it crumble into the mud.

"I cannot change what I am," he said quietly.

"And I cannot forget what I know," I countered.

I expected him to reach for me. I expected him to try and explain, or to pull me into another midnight heat that would drown out the questions. But he didn’t.

Casimir stepped back, his expression smoothing over into that glass-cold mask he wore for the rest of the world.

"If that is how you feel," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion, "then perhaps you should stay in this room until you remember who provided the roof over your head."