MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 7 - Seven: Gilded Promenade

//CLARA//

Being a Guggenheim ward wasn’t a safety net. It was a target. People flocked to me like I was a human Yelp review, begging for a five-star rating to flash at Casimir. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

My face was numb from the forced Botox-smile. I’d walked runways in seven-inch heels less exhausting than this. At least there, nobody expected me to pretend railroad talk was fascinating.

The vultures kept spinning their narrative, the hints about my fragile state to everyone we met. And every time, I countered with sugar-coated venom that made them look like liars.

"We should head toward the Mall," Bartholomew suggested.

My brain pinged with visions of air-conditioned luxury. Then I saw the gravel path. Right. I almost forget that their mall meant trinket stalls.

We were mingling when I spotted her. A girl my age on a bench, sketchbook in hand instead of a parasol. She looked bored out of her skull.

"Who’s that?"

Bartholomew’s nose crinkled.

"Miss Beatrice Sterling. We should leave her alone. She’s unconventional."

To translate that, it means a person who actually has a personality.

"Introduce me."

"What? You and her kind don’t—"

"Are you going to introduce me or not?"

He sighed like I’d asked him to walk the plank and steered me toward her.

"Good day, Miss Sterling, it’s a wonderful day, is it not?"

The girl looked up before she stands. Her eyes sharp, scanning over Bartholomew before she turned to me. The one I usually recognize when a person spent a lot of time judging everyone from the background.

"It’s quite fine I supposed, Mr. Vanderbilt," she tipped her head lightly when she spoke to him, then smiled at me. "And...you must be the new ward of Mr. Guggenheim?"

"Eleanor Thorne, nice to make your acquaintance." I said, stepping forward before Mr. Bart could do his usual gatekeeping.

"My fiancé," Mr. Bart inserted.

"Future, fiancé, nothing is finalized yet," I quickly cut him off.

The ink is way too far from drying on that merger.

I didn’t even look at him, but I let a flash of cold steel smile.

"Oh, I see." Beatrice murmured, her brows shooting up.

A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She immediately gets it.

Yup. Confirmed. I like her. Totally.

Not those fake-ass people wanting to get close to me just for Casimir.

"Well, it’s good to see you Miss Sterling," Mr. Bart’s voice cut in impatiently. "I hope your brother will be back from Europe soon. We’ll have a matter to discuss with."

"He’ll be back in a fortnight," she replied almost too instantly, as if we were a pop-up from her sketchbook she was trying to close.

Mr. Bart was about to drag me away, and for once I actually wanted to stay and talk with Beatrice than him parading me. This girl is like a breath of fresh air, but then she was suddenly called by a woman whose voice cut through the air like a serrated knife.

"Beatrice, dear. Come along now, there’s someone I’d like you to meet."

I heard her let out a low groan, a scowl forming on her face for a split second before she quickly flipped into a mask of sweet, boring obedience, while tucking her sketchbook against her chest.

"I’m sorry, I must attend to whatever it is that she’s planning," she leaned closer to me and whispered, low enough for Mr. Bart not to hear the rest of her words.

"Otherwise I’ll be sent to a dark cellar and quartered. That’s how terrifying she is, my mother."

She let out a nervous chuckled before she brisk-walking toward the lady.

"Well, see why you are not suppose to mingle with her," Mr. Bart muttered, looking relieved she was gone. "She has zero sense of propriety. Those New folks are all the same. They have no breeding."

New folks? What’s that supposed to mean?

"Oh, please," I snapped, watching her go. "She’s the only I’ve seen in this park who doesn’t look like they’ve been taxidermied."

Just then, two men in ridiculous top hats intercepted him.

"Vanderbilt! Heard about the merger contract!"

His eyes flickered to me, annoyed.

"One moment, Eleanor. Don’t wander far."

Right. Because I’m a golden retriever.

The second his grip loosened, I bolted.

I didn’t know where I was going until I reached the Lake. Water reflecting the afternoon sun. I leaned over the stone railing when a familiar voice spoke behind me.

"Your performance was impeccable."

My heart skipped.

Casimir moved closer, his shadow swallowing mine against the railing. Dark frock coat. Wolf in a poodle show, waiting to devour something. Or someone.

Please let me be that someone.

"You’re making them look like liars," he murmured, stepping closer until I was pinned between him and the railing. "Turning their words into weapons."

His gaze traveled down my restyled dress, lingering on the neckline with dark amusement. "I see you’ve done something to your dress."

I meet his predatory stare with a grin. "Since everyone is so eager to bury me alive in a contract, I figured I’d dress for destruction. Don’t you think?"

He reached out, his thumb grazing my jawline. The contact sent an electric current straight to my core.

"I still can’t imagine how you’ve grown such a sharp tongue, my little bird," he whispered, his hand sliding to the back of my neck. "Do you realize how dangerous it is to play with fire when you’re made of silk?"

His little bird. Eleanor wrote that in the diary. God, I loved it.

"I’m not made of silk, Casimir," I breathed, my brain overriding every instinct to pull him down and crush my lips against his. I poked my finger into the shallow dent on his chin, feeling the rough, inviting stubble. "I’m the match that starts the fire. Try not to get burned."

He chuckled, the sound reverberating through my chest. He caught my hand before I could touch his lips.

"Don’t, Clara."

"Or what? Are you going to tell on me, my dear step-uncle?" I prodded, the title tasting like a sin.

"No, I won’t tell a soul, my little bird."

His gaze dropped to my lips. For a second, the 19th century ceased to exist. He leaned even closer—

"Eleanor! There you are!"

The spell shattered. Mr. Bart was marching toward us, his face a mask of possessive annoyance. Casimir didn’t flinch. He didn’t even step away until the last second, his thumb lingering on my skin until the exact moment the suitor arrived.

"Casimir." Bartholomew panted, glancing between us. "Didn’t know you frequented promenades."

Casimir’s smile was all teeth.

"I make it a point to observe my investments. Especially the volatile ones."

His eyes met mine. Burning.

But yeah, right. His investments.

Ouch, that hurts!