MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 62 - Sixty-Two: The Broker

//CLARA//

The storm had moved on, leaving behind that eerie, scrubbed-clean silence that follows a disaster. The pale, watery morning light filtering through the heavy curtains.

My head throbbed with a dull and I lay there for a long time, staring at the canopy of the bed, trying to figure out how to be myself again when I felt like a version of me that had been put through a paper shredder.

Last night happened. The truth happened.

I dragged myself out of bed, dressed with Hattie’s silent, wide-eyed assistance, and made my way downstairs. My feet felt like lead.

Casimir was already there, hidden behind a copy of the New York Times issue. The smell of coffee and fried tomatoes made my stomach do a nervous somersault.

"Good morning," I said, sounding like I’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

Casimir lowered the paper. His eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles underneath them telling me he’d slept about as much as I had.

"Good morning, Eleanor," he replied.

We were passing the salt and the cream like we were negotiating a peace treaty across a very small mahogany table. It was civil. It was careful. And it was absolutely exhausting.

"You look dreadful, Eleanor," Aunt Cornelia’s voice sliced through the silence like a dull butter knife.

She was sitting at the far end, draped in more lace than a wedding cake.

"Truly. If you cannot manage to get proper rest, you will be entirely unfit for the Opera next week. Though, I suppose, with the way you’ve been behaving lately, unfit is a generous term."

Usually, I would have had a comeback ready. Something about how lace wasn’t a personality trait. But today? I just didn’t have the energy to fight her. I stared at my eggs, feeling that familiar weight of her disapproval pressing down on me.

I just... let it happen. I took a sip of tea and kept my mouth shut.

"Aunt Cornelia."

Casimir’s voice wasn’t loud, but it had a vibration to it that made the silver on the table hum. He didn’t look up from his coffee, but his jaw was set so tight I thought it might snap.

"Casimir, I am only pointing out that the girl—"

"That is enough." He finally looked at her, and even Cornelia flinched. "Eleanor has had a taxing few days. I will not have her digestion ruined by your lack of tact. If you cannot find a way to be pleasant at this table, you are more than welcome to take your meals in your rooms."

Aunt Cornelia’s fork hit her plate with a sharp clink. I blinked, looking at Casimir, but he had already gone back to his paper.

The tension was finally broken by the quiet, measured entrance of Higgins. He moved like a shadow, his white gloves pristine as he offered a silver tray to my side of the table. On it sat a single, wax-sealed letter.

"From Mr. Whitfield, Miss Eleanor," Higgins murmured.

I broke the seal with fingers that were still a little clumsy from lack of sleep.

My eyes scanned the lines—Oliver had found it. A textile mill near the river. Low rent, solid structure, and a broker who was apparently eager to close the deal. It was the break I needed. A tether to something real that wasn’t this suffocating house.

I looked across the table at Casimir, finally catching his eyes.

"Oliver found a location for the factory," I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering. "I need to see it today. I’ll be taking Miss Sterling with me."

Aunt Cornelia didn’t even wait to finish her tea before the venom started dripping.

"Miss Sterling?" She practically spat the name, her nose wrinkling as if I’d just suggested bringing a wet dog to the table. "Truly, Eleanor, your penchant for coddling such undesirable company is becoming a stain on this family’s reputation. The Sterlings are... new blood. Barely a generation removed from the dirt."

I didn’t snap. I didn’t even give her the satisfaction of an eye roll. I just stopped mid-bite and turned my head to look at her. I didn’t say a word. I just stared, my expression as flat and uninterested as if I were looking at a particularly dull piece of wallpaper. Her words were just air. Meaningless noise I deliberately ignored.

She looked at Casimir, expecting him to back her up, to reign in the insolent girl.

"I don’t recall asking for a lecture on social standing this morning, Auntie. In fact, I don’t recall asking for your voice at all."

He didn’t even grant her the courtesy of a glance.

"This is too much, Casimir—" 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

"If Eleanor finds the company suitable, then it’s suitable. This house does not operate on your prejudices." He took a slow, agonizingly calm sip of his coffee. "And if the topic is so distressing to your sensibilities, feel free to spend the rest of your morning in the conservatory. I’m sure the ferns will appreciate your commentary much more than I do."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Aunt Cornelia looked like she’d swallowed a hive of bees. She stood up so fast her silk skirts hissing like a pit of vipers as she marched out of the room.

I didn’t even breathe. I just sat there, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t even blink. I just watched the steam rise from my tea, feeling the heat of Casimir’s gaze on my skin.

The Thurston threat was still upon us. I expected Casimir to turn that intensity on me next. The immediate no. The reminder that I was technically grounded. Instead, he stood slowly.

"The carriage will stay at the curb. You will be back before the lamps are lit. Am I clear?"

I smiled. "Crystal."

He was terrified for me. I could see it. But he was trusting me to be part of the fight. Still, he looked like a man watching his heart walk into a lion’s den, knowing he had unlocked the cage.

The air outside was crisp and fragrant with wet pavement and horse manure. New York’s signature scent. Beatrice sat across from me, grinning like a woman who had just won the lottery and was trying not to gloat.

"It’s an old textile mill," Oliver beamed as soon as we pulled up, I saw exactly what he meant.

It was a towering, soot-stained brick building near the river. It was beautiful in a gritty way.

A man was waiting by the iron gates.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties—roughly Casimir’s age—but that was where the similarities ended. Where Casimir was all sharp edges and expensive gloom, this man had a soft, approachable face and a suit that, while clearly aged, had been brushed until it practically shone. He looked like a man who took pride in the little he had left.

"Ah, you must be Miss Thorne I’ve heard so much about from Mr. Whitfield," he said, tipping his hat with a gentle, humble smile. "Mr. Audelio Evans, at your service."

"Mr. Evans, thank you for meeting us on such short notice," I said, stepping forward.

I felt a weird rush of relief.

After a night of dealing with Casimir’s brooding intensity and the memory of Vanderbilt’s shark-like grin, Mr. Evans was a breath of fresh air.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Thorne," he said smoothly. He didn’t look at me like a porcelain doll or a liability. He looked at me like a woman in business.

"It’s not every day we see a Guggenheim taking an interest in the grit of the city. Shall we?"

He led us inside, pointing out the sturdy beams and the ventilation. He was super friendly, laughing at Oliver’s technical questions and asking me insightful things about the factory layout. He seemed genuinely impressed by my modern ideas.

For the first time in weeks, the knot in my stomach actually loosened.

"You have a real eye for this, Miss Thorne," Mr. Evans said, handing me a heavy iron key to one of the inner offices.

Our fingers brushed for a second, and his hand was warm. "The city needs more people like you. People who aren’t afraid of a little... change."

I smiled, feeling a genuine sense of accomplishment.

"Thank you, Mr. Evans. I think this is going to be perfect."

I stood in the dusty silence of the warehouse, looking out at the river. The weight of the key in my hand was the most comforting thing I’d felt in weeks. I finally had a handle on my own life again. I was in control.

Or at least, that’s what I let myself believe.