//CLARA//
I'd spent the last twelve hours playing a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek with a man who owned the very floorboards I was stepping on.
It was an exhausting, frantic dance. In my time, I could have handled this with a tap. If a guy said something that made the vibe turn radioactive, you just left him on read.
You ghosted until the digital dust settled. You blocked the notification and went to a different club just to let off steam.
But there was no block button in 1879. I was trapped in a limestone fortress with a 6'3" railroad tycoon who looked at me like I was his most prized—and most infuriating—acquisition.
Every time I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Casimir's boots echoing through the halls, I pivoted. I used the back servant stairs, ducking into the shadows of the pantry or hiding behind a massive Grecian urn whenever I heard him coming my way. I wasn't ready to face him. Not after the Marriage Bomb had detonated in my face.
