MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 76 - Seventy-Six: The Runway

//CLARA//

I realized I had been staring at myself in the mirror for a long time, but I could not remember when I had started.

The face looking back at me was not the one I had grown used to seeing in the gaslit glass of the Guggenheim estate. This face was polished and perfected, painted for a camera rather than for a drawing room.

My hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, every strand lacquered into place with the kind of precision that required a team of professionals. My eyes smoked out with charcoal shadow, and my lips were painted a sharp, defiant red.

The dress was a limited edition collection from a high-end brand, and it fit me like it had been sewn onto my body while I slept.

My first instinct wasn’t to look at the room, or trying to orient myself. It was to look down.

I turned my hands over. I expected to see the white linen. I expected the black lines of the infection or the weeping red lines from where the rope had chewed my skin.

But there was nothing.

My wrists were smooth, unblemished, and draped in a heavy diamond bracelet that caught the light and shattered it into a thousand expensive pieces.

I did not understand where I was or how I had gotten here. Or what the hell was even happening right now.

The door swung open, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the dressing room.

"Finally! I have been looking everywhere for you. You can’t just vanish after fitting, Clara."

I felt my stomach drop—a cold, nauseating lurch—the second I saw her silhouette in the mirror. It was a ghost. A vibrant, talking, living ghost from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

"Honestly, getting a decent matcha latte in this arrondissement is like trying to find a virgin at an after-party."

She was a whirlwind of chaos, juggling three cups and a tablet that glowed with notifications, her dark curls bouncing as she kicked the door shut with a sharp thud that echoed in my head like a gunshot.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I just stared at her through the mirror, my brain struggling to bridge the gap between the heavy scent of burning gas lamps and the sharp, floral sting of expensive French perfume.

"The line at the café was literally wrapped around the block. For a matcha, Clara. A matcha," she continued, oblivious to the fact that I was currently spiraling out of existence.

"Do you know how many people in this city would kill for a decent matcha? Zero. Because everyone here drinks espresso and acts superior about it. And don’t even get me started on the street. It’s a mosh pit out there. Half of Paris is trying to get into this tent just to see you walk."

The air in the room was suddenly too thin. Too clean.

"Lola?" 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

She stopped mid-stride, her brow furrowing as she set the drinks down.

"Uh, yeah? Who else would it be? You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost, and honey, your set is in thirty minutes. We don’t have time for a crisis."

"Where... where are we?"

Lola laughed, a short, sharp sound that usually made me smile. Now, it felt like a slap.

"Very funny. Ha ha." She stepped closer, waving her hands right in front of my face. "You’re bluffing, right? You didn’t forget we’re at Paris Fashion Week? You’re the lead model for the Givenchy opening. Hello? Earth to Clara?"

Givenchy. Paris Fashion Week.

The words registered somewhere in the back of my mind.

I stared back at the mirror. At the woman I’d almost forgotten I was.

Lola checked her watch. "Is there anything else you need? Water? A shot of tequila to calm your nerves?"

"No..."

The words tore out of me raggedly. I was on my feet without remembering standing, the room tilting, the dress too tight across ribs that wouldn’t stop heaving.

"No, no, no. I can’t leave him."

Lola’s face fell, her expression shifting to deep concern. She stepped closer and reached for my shoulders.

"Clara, breathe. What do you mean him? Who is him?"

I turned to face her fully. She was looking at me like I was speaking a language she did not understand.

"Casimir," I said.

Her frown deepened, and she tilted her head in that way she always did when she was trying to solve a puzzle.

"Who the hell is Casimir? Is that a new designer? Did Givenchy hire someone I do not know about?"

"No! You don’t understand!" Tears were already beginning to track through the perfect makeup. "I can’t leave him. Casimir... I left him begging. God, what happened? The diary... Lola, did you see a diary with me? Where is it?"

I panted, my hands beginning to shake. I pushed her slightly and started rummaging through the vanity drawers, throwing aside expensive lipsticks and hairpins.

"Clara, stop it! Who is Casimir?" Lola demanded, grabbing my wrists to stop the carnage. "What is happening?"

"The house," I gasped, looking at her with wide, wild eyes. "When did I come back from Newport? The cleanup on my ancestral house... how many days was I there?"

Lola’s brow furrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Clara... you haven’t been to Newport since you were in the fifth grade. What are you even talking about?"

The air seemed to be sucked out of my lungs. "What?"

"You’ve been in Paris for three days," Lola answered slowly. "We flew in from New York. There was no Newport. There was no cleanup."

A knock came at the door. The stage director poked his head in, his eyes darting to his watch.

"Miss Vance? Fifteen minutes. You need to be in position backstage. Let’s go."

"I can’t," I whispered.

"Okay, seriously." Lola grabbed my shoulders firmly, and her face inches from mine. "You are freaking me out."

"No."

The word came out stronger than I expected, cutting through the haze like a blade. Lola blinked, her hands falling away.

"No?"

"I cannot." I shook my head, and this time the chignon came completely undone, dark strands falling across my face and sticking to my lips. "I cannot walk that runway."

"Hey, look at me. Whatever is happening, we can talk about it after the show. But right now, you need to breathe. You need to focus. You have done this a hundred times. You own that runway. You are Clara fucking Vance."

A sob breaking from my chest. If this had happened months ago, I would have kissed the ground. I would have thanked every god in existence to be back in the world of matcha lattes and high-fashion runways.

But now? This world felt hollow. The thought of a life without the brutal, beautiful intensity of Casimir felt like ash in my mouth.

"No," I moaned, my head thrashing. "No... no..."

My body jerked.

The Paris lights exploded into white.

The dressing room dissolved. Lola’s face blurred, her voice fading like a radio losing signal, the words swallowed by static.

My eyes snapped open.

The ceiling was familiar. Dark woods and heavy beams. The gas lamps were still burning, their light harsh and yellow, driving the shadows into the corners where they could not reach me.

A light pressure anchored my right hand. I forced my eyes to follow the sensation, my vision swimming, until I finally found him.

Casimir.

The sight of him was like a hand reaching into my chest and clearing a space for me to breathe again. He was perched on the edge of the mattress, looking smaller than I’d ever seen him.

Both of his hands were wrapped around mine, gripping me as if I were the only thing keeping him from drifting away.

His head was bowed, his lips pressed against my knuckles with the fervor of a man praying at an altar.

He was clinging to me.

The room smelled of herbs and the sharp, sterile bite of ethanol. My foot throbbed beneath the bandages—less painful than I remembered, but enough to remind me I was alive.

"Casimir?" My voice came out cracked.

He stiffened, his stormy gaze snapping to mine. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, the shadows beneath his eyes as dark and heavy as bruises. When he realized I was finally awake, something in his expression simply shattered.

"Clara." His voice was hoarse, wrecked, stripped of all its usual composure. "You are awake."

I looked down at our hands. His were trembling.

"I am." I said.

He pulled my hand to his chest, pressing it flat against his heart. I could feel it pounding beneath my palm, fast and wild, a rhythm that matched my own.

"I thought I lost you," he said. "The fever. The infection. The doctor said—"

He stopped and swallowed hard, his throat working. He could not finish the sentence.

I squeezed his hand.

"I had the strangest dream," I said.

Was it even a dream?