//CLARA//

Felipe’s carriage waited at the curb like a hearse for a life I almost wanted.

I stood on the marble steps, hands clasped tightly to keep them from shaking.

He turned to me, his smile soft and laden.

"This is it, then," he said.

"This is it."

He stepped forward and opened his arms.

"May I?"

I didn’t hesitate and stepped into his embrace one last time.

"Write to me," he murmured against my hair. "Tell me about the orphanage, about your factory. Tell me when you’re happy. And if the world ever leaves you lonely... or if he proves unworthy of the heart you’ve given him... you know where I’ll be. I’ll keep a light burning, just in case."

I laughed through the lump in my throat. "You’ll be in Cuba."

"After Cuba," he promised, kissing my forehead.

"Be safe," I whispered.

Then he was gone, the carriage wheels crunching over the gravel until the sound bled into the distance.

I felt hollow. And then, I felt the eyes.

Aunt Cornelia stood at the top of the stairs. Arms crossed. She hadn’t said goodbye. She didn’t even have the grace to hide her displeasure. She looked as though she wanted to personally draft the Prince into the army herself just to punish him for not signing the marriage contract.

The days that followed were filled with a silence so thick it felt like breathing through wool and Aunt Cornelia’s simmering rage.

On the third morning, she finally boiled over.

"This is your second strike, Eleanor." Her fork clicking sharply against the china. "Now a failed royal engagement. Two failed engagements. We cannot afford another accident. Your uncle and I have reached the end of our patience."

I set my teacup down. "He wasn’t an accident, Auntie. He was a man going to war."

"He was an opportunity you let slip through your fingers," she snapped. "I have written to Bartholomew. He is... surprisingly forgiving. He is open to the possibility of reconnecting. He is willing to overlook your recent escapades for the sake of the alliance."

"You did what?" The blood drained from my face. "You’d send me back to a man who nearly choked the life out of me? Have you lost your mind, or just your soul?"

"He apologized," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "He promised it won’t happen again. What more do you want? Blood?"

"Promises from a man like that are worth as much as the dirt on his boots," I hissed, slamming my hand on the table. The silver rattled. "It’s like baiting a fox with a hen and expecting him to play shepherd. I will never marry him. Casimir will not allow it."

Aunt Cornelia laughed.

The sound scraped down my spine like broken glass.

"Oh, my darling niece." She leaned forward. "Your uncle has already given me the authority to marry you off to whomever I see fit."

My stomach churned.

"And frankly," she continued, rising from her chair, "I intend to have you wed and bedded before he even crosses the state line. The invitations are already being drawn up. The banns will be posted by the end of the week. This season will not end with you unwed, Eleanor. I will not have it."

"You can’t—"

"I can. I will." She cut me off without looking at me. "I don’t actually care if they drag you to the altar. Truthfully, I don’t care who you bed. You could marry a shoe cleaner from the docks and I wouldn’t bat an eye. I would watch you scrub his floors and feel nothing but relief to have you out of my sight."

She finally looked at me.

"But we have a name to live up to. I will not have Casimir’s ward marry someone without a name. So you will smile. You will curtsy. And when the time comes, you will say I do. Even if I have to have the servants hold you upright to do it."

"I will never—"

"You will." She stepped closer. "Or I will lock you in your room and let you out for the wedding and the wedding alone. You can scream. You can cry. You can beat your pretty little fists against the door until they bleed. I don’t care. By the time Casimir returns, you will already be someone’s wife. And there won’t be a damn thing he can do about it."

I couldn’t breathe.

She smiled. Satisfaction curled her lips.

"Do you know what the best part is, Eleanor? Even if he comes back early, even if he tries to stop it, he can’t. He signed the papers. He left you with me." She tilted her head, savoring the words. "He abandoned you. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it."

She swept toward the door, then paused.

"The preparations begin tomorrow. I suggest you start practicing your smile. You’ll need it every single day for the rest of your miserable life."

The door slammed behind her.

I stood there, unable to move, my hands trembling.

My chest was caving in. The walls were pressing closer. I pressed my palm flat against my ribs, trying to keep them from collapsing, but it wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

I hated this. I hated that I’d become a crybaby since he left. The tears were already burning behind my eyes, ready to spill.

I am Clara fucking Vance. I will survive this goddamn century. I will—No...

I forced myself to move. One foot in front of the other. My legs were shaking.

I didn’t care.

I rounded the corner toward the staircase—and stopped.

The front door was open. A draft of freezing air curled through the foyer. And there, standing among the luggage, was a ghost.

He looked like he’d crawled out of a shallow grave. His coat was rumpled, his hair too long, and his jaw was shadowed by a thick, rugged beard. He looked gaunt, his stormy eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my lungs seize.

"Get out of my head," I spat.

He didn’t move.

"Are you not done torturing me?" My voice cracked. "I said get out out of my fucking head!"

I marched toward him, raising my fist to swing through the hallucination like I had a hundred times before. I punched his chest with everything I had.

It connected.

Warm wool. Solid. Real.

I stumbled back, gasping, staring at my fist and then at the man who didn’t dissolve into smoke like it was supposed to. The tears came then, pouring uncontrollably.

The foyer felt too small, the air too thick, the light from the chandelier suddenly stabbing at my eyes like needles.

The blood rushing in my ears, the ghost-scent of him finally becoming flesh. It was an assault on my senses.

"You bastard!" I choked out. I swung, my fist slamming into his chest. "You left me! You left me to rot in this cage while they picked at my skin!"

I hit him again, but the world was blurring, tilting on its axis. Every inch of me screaming, my mind reeling from Aunt Cornelia’s venom and the sudden, impossible reality of him being here.

"You left me for the vultures!" I shrieked, sounding too inhuman. "You left me for them to feast on my carcass! Do you have any idea what it’s been like?"

I hit him again, but my strength was fleeting. The incoherent sobs took over, racking my body until I couldn’t tell if I was breathing or dying.

"And she... she..." I was spiraling. "She’s going to hand me back to him. To Bartholomew. I’m being sold, Casimir! I wrote you letters—every goddamn night—and I burned them because I hated how much I needed you! I hate you! I hate you for being the only thing I wanted!"

The punches turned into weak, pathetic taps.

My fingers curled into his coat, clutching him as if I could tear the truth of his absence right out of his chest. My forehead dropped against him, and I simply fell apart.

I was shaking. Violent tremors that started in my marrow and rattled through my teeth.

Casimir didn’t say a word.

He just let me break. My body sagged, my knees finally giving way under the sheer exhaustion of being trapped in this nightmare. He caught me, his hands locking onto my shoulders with a grip so firm it felt like he was stitching my soul back together by force.

I wanted to scream until my vocal cords snapped. I wanted to claw at his face until he felt a fraction of the jagged ruin inside me. But I had nothing left. The fire had burned out, leaving only the ash of my own desperation.

I let him tuck me into the crook of his neck. He pulled me in so tightly I thought my ribs might crack, his chest rising and falling in a broken rhythm that mercifully matched my own.

I pressed my face into his coat, soaking the fabric with the salt of my rage.

I breathed him in. The scent of cold rain, the bitter tang of tobacco, and the wide, lonely dust of the West.

He smelled like everything. The only thing that could ever bring me home.

He’s here. And somehow, everything else doesn’t matter.