//CLARA//
My fingers were permanently stained with black ink, and if I had to look at one more wax-sealed envelope, I was going to use my dual-knife to shred the entire library.
The desk was completely buried under stacks of imported vellum, layout maps of the grand ballroom, and complex seating charts were spread across every available surface, covered in my frantic, barely legible scrawl.
A half-empty cup of tea had gone cold hours ago, and somewhere beneath a pile of guest lists, I was pretty sure I'd lost my mind.
I didn't even bother to lift my head when the door opened. The weight of his footfalls against the rug gave him away instantly.
"You're tracking dirt on the Persian rug, Casimir," I muttered, dipping my pen into the inkwell.
"And you've been sitting in that exact position for four hours," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled from behind me.
A large, calloused hand descended over my shoulder, instantly filling the space around me with his presence.
