MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 26 - Twenty-Six: Whitfield’s Puzzle

//CLARA//

I didn’t sleep.

Not really. I drifted in and out of something that couldn’t be called rest, replaying the stables on a loop.

The word I’d thrown at his feet like a grenade.

Coward.

I still meant it.

But meaning it didn’t stop my chest from aching.

By the time Hattie arrived to dress me, I looked like I’d been through a war. She took one look at my face and wisely said nothing.

The Charity Bazaar was a study in controlled chaos. Silk and candlelight, laughter and gossip, the endless choreography of people who’d rather die than show a single genuine emotion. Normally I’d be performing right along with them, mask in place, game face on.

Tonight, I couldn’t find the energy.

Aunt Cornelia had swept ahead the moment we arrived, abandoning me to the crowd like a shark releasing a chum ball. I drifted through the rooms, accepting champagne I didn’t drink, smiling at faces I didn’t see, looking for an escape route that didn’t exist.

Then I found one.

Oliver Whitfield materialized at my elbow with two glasses of champagne and that easy smile that never felt like it was hiding a knife.

"You look like a woman in need of rescue," he said.

"Well, I’m glad you’re my knight in shining armor," I said, preening dramatically.

He offered his arm. "Shall we cause some gossip?"

"I want it steaming hot."

We fell into step like we’d been doing this for years. For an hour, we were inseparable—laughing too loud, leaning too close, absolutely not following any of the rules. Oliver had a gift for making the absurd feel natural, for spinning conversation into something that didn’t feel like performance.

It was glorious.

And every time I glanced across the room, I caught flashes of two men watching.

Casimir, near the fireplace, his champagne glass forgotten in his hand. He’d been standing there since I arrived, a statue with a pulse, radiating cold fury from across the room.

And Bartholomew Vanderbilt, weaving through the crowd with that smile that never reached his eyes, clearly trying to intercept us.

He almost succeeded twice. The first time, Oliver smoothly steered me toward the refreshment table just as Bartholomew approached. The second, I spotted him coming and dragged Oliver toward the string quartet, chattering about nothing until the threat passed.

"He’s going to pop a vein in his neck if he glares any harder," Oliver whispered, leaning in just enough to be scandalous.

"Let him," I replied, offering a bright, fake laugh for the benefit of the room. "I’ve always thought a bit of purple suited his complexion."

We were giddy with it—two co-conspirators in a room full of spies.

Then Oliver froze.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just... stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-smile. His gaze fixed on something over my shoulder, and the light in his eyes simply died.

I turned to follow his line of sight.

A woman. Beautiful. Dark hair piled elegantly, a shimmering gown in deep blue, a smile that probably charmed everyone who saw it. She was walking arm in arm with a tall, distinguished man, laughing at something he’d said, her head tilted toward his.

The perfect couple.

Or the perfect lie.

"Oliver." I touched his arm. "Hey. You okay?"

He didn’t answer for a beat. Then he blinked, the mask of the charming socialite clicking back into place with a hollow sound.

"Excuse me, Clara. I... I need some air."

I was halfway through a step to follow him when a hand clamped onto my arm. Not Casimir’s heavy, familiar grip, but something thinner and more desperate.

Bartholomew.

"Eleanor, really," he drawled, his fingers digging into my lace. "Chasing after a man who clearly has better things to do? It’s a bit desperate, don’t you think?"

I looked at his hand on my arm the way one might look at a cockroach on a wedding cake. Then up at his face, my expression shifting into a sneer.

"Mr. Vanderbilt." The name left my mouth like I’d bitten into something rotten. "If I wanted to spend my evening with someone who lacked a personality, I’d talk to a wall. At least the wall doesn’t have bad breath. Let. Go."

I wrenched my arm away before he could process the insult and swept toward the balcony.

The night air was sharp, a welcome sting against my flushed skin. I found Oliver leaning against the stone balusters, his head bowed, his hands gripping the rail so hard his knuckles were white.

I didn’t announce myself. Just leaned against the doorframe and waited.

A minute passed. Two.

"I’m fine," he said without turning. "You can go back inside."

"Did I ask?"

He turned then. That smile was back, but it was hanging on by a thread.

"Does it really matter?" I asked softly, stepping up beside him. "Whatever it is you’re currently trying to hide from the rest of New York?"

He didn’t look at me. He just stared out at the dark expanse of the gardens.

"It’s nothing, Clara. Just the heat. The room was getting small."

"Liar," I said, leaning my back against the rail. "You’re a terrible liar for a man with so much practice. This is about the girl, isn’t it? The one you were watching like she held the keys to your afterlife."

"What girl?"

"Oliver." I leveled him with a look, letting him see exactly how transparent he was. "I spent my entire life reading the people around me. You’re not that hard to read."

He hesitated. For a long moment, the only sound was the muffled music from inside and the distant clip-clop of a carriage.

"Her name is Catherine," he said quietly. "We were going to be married. Or I thought we were."

I waited for him to continue.

"Her father found a better option." He nodded toward the door, toward the glittering crowd inside. "More money. More status. Everything I couldn’t give her."

"She chose him."

"She chose what she was raised to choose." His laugh was hollow. "I can’t even blame her. That’s the worst part. She was being sensible. Practical. Everything a good daughter should be."

I came to stand beside him at the railing. Didn’t touch him. Just... stood there.

"It’s been three months," he said. "I came to New York to clear my head. To stop being the man whose fiancée left him for a better prospect."

He glanced at me, and for the first time, I saw the real him, not the charming mask.

"Three months, and I feel like I’m already dying."

I thought about my own ache. The loneliness of being the only person from my century in a world that would never understand me. The missing of things I’d never get back.

"It doesn’t go away," I said. "Not completely. But it becomes part of you. You learn to carry it."

He looked at me strangely, something shifting in his expression. "How do you know that?"

"Let’s just say I’ve done some carrying."

He didn’t push, and I was grateful.

We stood there in silence, two people with invisible weights, watching the stars pretend they weren’t on fire.

Then an idea struck. A slow smile curved on my lips as I turned to Oliver.

"You mentioned something about what you were working on, right? Some invention?"

Oliver blinked, pulled from his melancholy. "You actually remember that?"

"I remember everything people tell me. It’s a curse." I leaned against the railing, studying him. "So? Spill."

He hesitated, then something shifted in his expression. A flicker of the enthusiasm I’d seen when he talked about things that actually mattered.

"It’s a machine. For typesetting." He ran a hand through his hair. "Right now, every line of type in every newspaper is set by hand. It’s slow, tedious, and limits how much can be printed. But if you could mechanize it—create a machine that casts entire lines of type at once—"

"You could double the size of newspapers overnight." I finished his sentence, and his eyes widened.

"How did you know that?"

I shrugged, trying not to smile too triumphantly. "Lucky guess. So you’ve built this machine?"

"A prototype. It needs work—funding, mostly. The right backer who sees the potential." He laughed bitterly. "Unfortunately, most of the men with money in this city would rather invest in something safe. Railroads. Coal. Things they understand."

"What if I could find you a backer?" I tilted my head, letting the idea bloom like a beautiful, chaotic flower. "Someone who owes me... let’s call it a debt. Not a financial one, but a debt nonetheless. We get your machine built, you become the success you were always meant to be, and Catherine gets to watch from the sidelines."

I grinned. "Preferably while standing next to her very boring, very replaceable fiancé."

Oliver’s voice was quiet. "And if she doesn’t care?"

"Then you’re still a rich, successful inventor with the world at your feet." I squeezed his arm. "And she’s still engaged to a man she chose out of obligation, which is its own kind of karma."

I winked. "Either way, you win. I love those odds."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, a real smile broke through, crinkling his eyes.

"You’re terrifying."

"I know." I beamed. "Isn’t it wonderful?"