//CLARA//
We settled Oliver into The Hoffman House.
In 1879, it was the pinnacle of Gilded Age luxury—all marble floors, mahogany accents, and a bar that had witnessed more million-dollar deals than the Stock Exchange. A far cry from a prison cell. The look of pure, disbelieving relief on Oliver's face almost made the hole in my chest close up.
And guess who owned the building?
Yep. My beloved guardian darling.
Oliver stared at the crystal chandelier, then at me, then back at the chandelier.
"I cannot afford this."
"You are not paying for it."
"Eleanor—"
"Casimir is." I patted his arm. "Consider it reparations for the broken nose."
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then he just shook his head and followed the bellhop toward the stairs.
"Thank you," he said quietly, not looking back.
But before the move, I'd made one more call.
