MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 84 - Eighty-Four: An Oath

//CLARA//

The silence of the Guggenheim mansion at two in the morning was thick enough to choke on. We sauntered inside, the heavy oak doors thudding shut behind us like the closing of a tomb.

I smoothed my hands down the front of my skirts. By some miracle of silk and tailoring, the dress was intact. Only Casimir and I knew that my inner drawers were a shredded ruin. My legs were still shaky, though I was not sure if it was from the warehouse or from him.

Probably both.

We were headed for the stairs when a shadow suddenly flickered in the parlor. My heart did a violent, panicked backflip against my ribs. I froze, my modern instincts sharpening into a jagged edge.

I was half a second away from pulling some kung-fu shit—even though my only real training was a Cardio Kickbox class once in Soho—before a familiar, grating voice cut through the dark.

"I trust the rats at the docks provided stimulating conversation?" 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

Aunt Cornelia was perched on the edge of a velvet settee like a gargoyle on a cathedral.

Damn. Seriously, why does she have to lurk in the shadows like a vengeful spirit in a low-budget horror movie?

"Auntie," Casimir let out a smooth, lethally bored sigh. "I did not realize we were keeping a curfew."

I didn’t have the patience for this. I was tired, my nerves were fried, and I still had the phantom sensation of Casimir’s hands on me. The last thing I needed was a lecture from the human equivalent of a vinegar bottle.

"I am going to gather Oliver’s letters for comparison. You two can hash this out."

I turned and beat a hasty retreat toward the stairs before she could even draw breath for a rebuttal. I didn’t need to look back to know Casimir was staring at the back of my head like I’d just sold him to the highest bidder for a bag of magic beans.

I’m sorry, darling, I thought, a tiny, wicked smirk tugging at my lips as I hit the first step. But she’s your blood, not mine. You deal with the wicked witch. I’ll handle you later.

"Casimir—"

I refused to hear the rest. I was already climbing the stairs, the sound of Aunt Cornelia’s shrill admonishments following me like a swarm of hornets. Scandalous. Unprecedented. Ruinous.

I spent ten minutes in my room, digging through my desk for Oliver’s old letters.

When I headed back down, the house was eerily quiet.

Casimir was alone in the parlor, standing by the cold fireplace with a glass of scotch gripped so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Where is she?" I asked softly.

"Retreated to her lair," he said, giving me a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "She has a way of making the air in a room feel thin."

He looked... off. Not just his usual facade, but darker. More hollow. The shadows under his eyes weren’t just signs of a long night. They seemed deeper, carved into his skin by whatever venom Aunt Cornelia had spent the last ten minutes spitting at him.

"Are you okay?"

He ignored the question, reaching out for the letters in my hand.

"Let’s see the letters."

We spent the next hour huddled over his massive mahogany desk. We compared the slope of the ’L’s and the cross of the ’E’s. The forgery was good but side-by-side with Oliver’s genuine, frantic script, the inconsistencies screamed.

I yawned, the sound escaping before I could catch it, and Casimir’s hand paused over the documents.

"You need to sleep." He gathered the papers, tapping them into alignment with excessive care. "The court convenes in a few hours. You’ll need every bit of that sharp tongue if you’re going to survive the witness stand."

"I am sharp."

"Don’t be stubborn." He frowned, the heavy exhaustion weighing down his gaze. "I have already indulged too many of your whims tonight. Get some rest, little bird."

I stood up, my body aching with the kind of bone-deep strain that made every muscle protest.

"The charges," I pushed, unable to let it go. "Now that we know Oliver is innocent, surely you can just—"

"Drop them?" Casimir let out a dry, jagged scrape of a laugh. "As if justice were a mere ledger entry, to be erased with a stroke of a pen?"

He moved to the window, his back to me. I saw it then—the slight slump in those normally rigid shoulders, the hand he pressed against the cold glass as if he needed the support.

"It isn’t that simple, Clara. I wish to God it were." He let out a weary, hollow sigh. "In this world, a man of my standing cannot simply misspeak without blood being drawn. If I drop this now, the questions will start. Why was he arrested? Why was he held? Why did I not examine the evidence sooner?"

He turned back to me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"There would be repercussions. Civil defamation. Malicious prosecution. They could come after me, and if they stripped me of my standing as your..."

He hesitated, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.

"They’d hold every asset your parents left you until you’re twenty-one. If I am removed as your guardian, control of those assets would fall to someone else. Someone who does not have your best interests at heart. You’d be at their mercy."

The realization settled in my chest like a stone. I thought of all the vultures waiting for a chance to sink their claws into Eleanor’s inheritance—and into me.

"Then what do we do?"

He stared at me intently, his gaze dark and proprietary.

"We let the law exonerate him. The magistrate must dismiss the case based on the evidence we provide. It is the only way to restore his dignity... and keep you safely under my protection."

"Okay," I whispered, the word feeling small in the vast, quiet room. "Okay."

He was right. He was damn right about all of it.

This wasn’t just about Oliver’s freedom anymore. It was about the thin line between my survival and the vultures waiting for Casimir to slip up.

I gave him a small, stiff nod—not because I wanted to agree, but because I had to—and turned toward the door. I retreated to my room in silence, the weight of it feeling heavier with every step I took up those grand, hollow stairs.

The courtroom was a suffocating box of cedar and judgement.

When they brought Oliver in, my stomach did a slow, painful roll. He was a mess. His clothes were rumpled, his hair matted, and his face was still horribly battered from where Casimir had beaten him. Our eyes met across the room, and I saw a flash of pure, gut-wrenching relief wash over him.

I moved toward him instinctively, but a bailiff’s hand blocked my path.

"Miss Thorne, you will wait until you are called."

I nodded and took my seat in the gallery. Casimir was already there, his face carved from stone. He did not look at me. He was watching the magistrate, calculating, planning.

The hearing began. The prosecution presented their case—the letter, the timing, the fact that Oliver’s workshop had been the return address. It was thin, circumstantial, but it was enough to keep him in a cell for days.

Then it was my turn.

"Miss Eleanor Thorne."

I stood. My legs felt like they were strapped with hundred-pound weights. I walked to the witness stand and placed my hand on the Bible. The leather was warm. The words felt heavy.

"I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God."

The words left my mouth, and I waited for lightning to strike. It did not. The ceiling did not cave in. The magistrate simply nodded, and the room went on with its business.

Right. No turning back now.