MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 63 - Sixty-Three: The Academy

//CLARA// 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

I walked through the dusty floors with a measuring tape in one hand and a sketch in the other. My idea of manual labor was carrying a laptop to a coffee shop, but standing in the hollowed-out mill, I felt a rush of adrenaline I hadn’t felt in a while.

Oliver was already there, marking walls and muttering about load-bearing beams. Beatrice had come along to keep me company again, which really meant she wanted an excuse to watch Oliver work. I did not blame her.

"That south wall needs reinforcement," Oliver called out. "Mr. Evans mentioned water damage from the previous tenant."

I recorded the detail in my ledger.

"Machinery goes here," he continued, tapping a fresh chalk mark on the floor. "Assembly line along the back wall, shipping dock at the far end."

I followed his lead, my mind already pivoting from architecture to logistics.

"We’ll need to start interviewing soon. Finding skilled labor in this neighborhood is going to be our biggest hurdle."

"I’ve already got a few leads," Oliver said, wiping his hands on a soot-stained rag.

"You always have leads. It’s a talent, honestly."

He flashed a grin. "It’s a necessity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think Miss Sterling has had quite enough of this dust for one morning. I’m going to see about those refreshments."

"It’s a magnificent vision, Miss Thorne."

I turned to find Mr. Evans leaning against a dusty pillar.

"Mr. Evans. I did not expect to see you here."

"I was in the neighborhood," he said, stepping inside. "I wanted to see how the space was treating you."

"It is perfect. Exactly what we needed."

He nodded, looking around. "It is good to see someone breathing life back into this old building."

His expression softened. "I used to have a business. Lost it in the crash."

"I am sorry," I said.

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. I have made peace with it." He smiled again. "But seeing you here, building something new—it gives me hope."

I did not know what to say to that. So I just nodded and turned back to my sketches.

He left a few minutes later, tipping his hat and wishing me luck. I watched him go, and for a moment, I felt a strange pang of sympathy for him.

Nice man, I thought. Life has not been kind to him.

Then I turned back to my work and forgot about him entirely.

By the time I returned to the mansion, the sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in colors that seemed almost vulgar in their brightness. I had barely removed my coat when Aunt Cornelia’s voice cut through the entrance hall like a blade through silk.

"The Academy of Music, Eleanor. It is tonight."

I turned to find her arranged upon the staircase like a figure from a moralizing painting, her jewels already declaring war.

"It is the opening of the spring season. You will wear the gold silk, and you will, for once, attempt to behave like a lady of your station."

"Is Casimir going?"

"Of course. And the Chases will be in attendance. Adelaide has been most eager to see your uncle."

I groaned internally. Great. A long night of high-pitched singing and higher-pitched social climbing.

The Academy rose before us like a temple to excess. Even the Met Gala back home did not have this level of self-satisfaction. Chandeliers dripped like frozen waterfalls. Women in diamonds floated through a hum of cultivated gossip.

I followed the parade inside, my hand resting on Casimir’s arm. Even through the layers of wool and silk, I could feel the tension in his muscles.

"Miss Chase," Aunt Cornelia called out across the crowded lobby. "My dear, you look radiant. Isn’t she, Casimir?"

"Good evening, Adelaide." Casimir said almost robotically.

"The Chases have the box adjacent to ours. We thought it would be pleasant to sit together. Casimir, you will escort Miss Chase to her seat, of course. Eleanor can tuck in next to Mrs. Bauer."

Mrs. Bauer smelled like mothballs and a very specific, high-society brand of disapproval. From my assigned seat in the corner, I could only watch as Adelaide’s fan fluttered like a dying bird whenever she leaned into Casimir’s space.

He sat there like a statue, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd instead of the stage. He looked like a man expecting an assassination, not an opera.

And then I saw him. Bartholomew Vanderbilt across the horseshoe, leaning against the railing. He caught my eye and offered a cold, predator’s grin that turned my blood to ice.

During the intermission, I escaped to the ladies’ withdrawing room, needing a moment away from Aunt Cornelia’s schemes and Adelaide’s perfect smile. I stood before the mirror, pressing cool hands to my flushed cheeks, when I sensed someone behind me.

"Searching for more archives, Eleanor?" Bartholomew’s voice was smooth as silk, and twice as dangerous. "How delightful to find you alone. Again."

I turned slowly, keeping my expression neutral. "Mr. Vanderbilt. This is the ladies’ withdrawing room. Your presence is... unconventional."

He smiled, and I saw the predator beneath the polish.

"I am unconventional, my dear. As you well know." He stepped closer, and I caught the cloying scent of his cologne. "I have been thinking of your research. The properties you were investigating. Fascinating work."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my voice steady.

"Still circling, I see. I thought you would have found fresh prey by now."

He laughed, a sound that scraped my nerves.

"Don’t paint me as the villain when I’m the one who caught you snooping. Thurston’s downfall was... theatrical, wouldn’t you say?"

I gripped the edge of the vanity.

"I do not know what you mean."

"Don’t you?" He leaned in, his voice a whisper that crawled across my skin. "I think you know exactly what your precious uncle is capable of. The question is—what are you willing to do to keep his secrets?"

"I believe the lady asked you to leave."

The voice came from the doorway. Cold and deadly.

I turned. Casimir stood there, framed by the gaslight of the corridor beyond, his face carved from stone.

Bartholomew’s smile flickered, just for a moment.

"Mr. Vanderbilt." Casimir stepped into the room, his presence sucking the air from the space. "You are in the ladies’ withdrawing room. I suggest you find your way back to the gentlemen’s before I am forced to assist you."

His hand closed around my arm like an iron vice.

Bartholomew’s smile never wavered, but I saw the calculation in his eyes as he assessed Casimir’s stance, the set of his shoulders, the barely contained violence in his grip upon my arm.

"Of course, Mr. Guggenheim. I was merely offering my condolences to your niece on her recent... disappointments."

He slipped past us, his shoulder brushing Casimir’s. Then he was gone. I was left with Casimir’s hand upon my arm and the trembling that I could no longer control.

He said nothing. He simply turned, propelling me through the door and into the corridor.

His grip did not loosen. His pace did not slow. We passed through the crowds of intermission, and he moved through them as if they were smoke.

"Casimir," I managed, straining with effort to keep up with his longer stride. "Casimir, stop. Please."

He did not stop. He pulled me through a service door, down a narrow hallway lined with crates, and into a space that opened like a secret kept from the world.

The conservatory. Glass walls rising to a vaulted ceiling, moonlight scattered across ferns and orchids and wild, untamed vines.

The air was humid, thick with the scent of earth and growing things, and somewhere water dripped, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

Casimir released my arm at last. I stumbled forward a step, catching myself against the wrought-iron frame of a bench, and turned to face him.

"What the hell—"

"You should not wander off alone."

His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. His hands were clenched at his sides, the knuckles white, the tendons standing out in stark relief.

"I needed air," I countered, refusing to look away. "Besides, I didn’t think Bartholomew would be fool enough to follow me with you nearby."

Casimir stepped into my space, his shadow swallowing me whole.

"Mr. Vanderbilt is many things, but he is a leech that senses blood. And you," he murmured, his thumb dragging rough and slow across my lower lip, "have been bleeding for everyone to see all night."

"Is that what you see in me?" I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "A prey to be leeched on?"

"No," he growled, his hand sliding into my hair to tilt my head back. "I see the only thing in this city I can’t control. And it’s driving me out of my mind."

Before I could breathe, he claimed me, his mouth crashing into mine as he backed me into the humid shadows where the moonlight couldn’t follow.