MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle

//CLARA//

The questions wouldn’t stop.

They circled my mind like vultures, picking at the bones of everything I didn’t know. How had Bartholomew escaped? Who opened the door? Was it Silas Thurston? Where was Silas now?

I paced the length of my room with my velvet slippers silent against the rug. The morning light had faded hours ago, replaced by the cold, silver glow of the moon slicing through the glass.

Too many questions. Too few answers.

Casimir had left at dawn. A rider I didn’t recognize had delivered an unsealed message, and within minutes, Casimir was pulling on his heavy overcoat.

"What is it?" I’d asked, catching his sleeve before he could reach the door.

"Nothing. I’ll handle it."

"Casimir—"

"I said I’ll handle it." He’d kissed my forehead and vanished into the fog.

That was twelve hours ago. His side of the bed was still untouched.

Knock. Knock.

"Come in."

Gary slipped inside, shutting the door with a quiet thud. His collar was unbuttoned, his face pale and slick with sweat.

"Clara," he whispered, his hands gesturing wildly. "Something’s wrong."

"I know."

"No—I mean the ship is sinking right now." He crossed the room, panic lacing over his voice. "I’ve been watching the grounds. The guards are gone. All of them. The gates are standing wide open... and I heard the servants talking. Silas is dead."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"They dredged him out of the river this morning," Gary wheezed, his eyes wide with terror. "The police are calling it murder, and they’re pinning the whole execution on Casimir!"

Before I could even process the words, a sudden, heavy crash echoed from downstairs as the front doors were shoved violently off their latches. A voice cut through the cavernous foyer like broken glass.

"Where is that whore?!"

My stomach plummeted further.

Aunt Cornelia.

Gary grabbed my wrist. "Clara—"

"Stay here."

"Are you insane? You can’t go down there—"

"Stay. Here."

I yanked my arm free and stepped into the corridor. My hands were shaking and my chest felt tight, but a white-hot wave of rage swept away the fear. I wasn’t a helpless, whimpering orphaned ward hiding under the covers. I was the mistress of this estate, and that spiteful old hag had no right to cross my threshold.

Aunt Cornelia stood at the base of the grand staircase, flanked by two burly men in heavy wool coats. She clutched her silver-headed cane, that ridiculous, theatrical prop she used to feign fragility like a weapon.

"Ah," she sneered, her pale eyes snapping up toward the landing. "There she is. The little tramp who dragged our name through the gutter."

I didn’t flinch. I descended the marble stairs slowly, my chin high, my spine iron-rigid.

"You are trespassing. Get out before I have you thrown into the street."

"Your street?" Aunt Cornelia let out a screeching, hideous laugh. "This house belongs to the Guggenheims! You are nothing but a parasite! A gutter rat’s daughter who crawled into my nephew’s bed to steal a fortune!"

I reached the bottom step and looked her dead in the eye. "I said... get out."

SMACK.

Her gloved palm cracked hard across my cheek. Pain exploded across my jaw, snapping my head back, the sharp taste of copper bursting against my tongue.

The humiliation was familiar. The violence was familiar. But I wasn’t the helpless girl she used to lock away.

I straightened up, reared back, and struck her across the face with every ounce of force in my body.

SMACK!

Aunt Cornelia’s head snapped sideways. She stumbled back against the brutes flanking her, gasping in utter, bug-eyed shock as her hand flew to her bright red, swelling cheek.

"Did you think I would just stand here?" I stepped into her space, my voice shaking with cold fury. "Did you think you could hit me again and again without a reckoning?"

"How dare you—"

"I am not your ward! I am not your property!" I got so close I could smell the stale powder on her skin and the spit flecking her lips. "I am Mrs. Casimir Guggenheim. I am the lady of this house. And you are just a bitter, washed-up hag clinging to a world that doesn’t want you anymore!"

Aunt Cornelia’s face twisted into something demonic. She raised her heavy silver cane high above her head.

"I’ll kill you!"

Higgins materialized from the shadows, stepping between us and catching her wrist.

"Madam, please—"

"Get off me, you insolent fool!" She wrenched her arm free, her eyes wild, pointing the silver tip directly at my throat. "I’ll strip you of every cent! I will take back everything you stole from me!"

"You have nothing left to take," I spat, holding my ground without flinching. "You lost. And all you have left is your malice."

Aunt Cornelia stared at me, her chest heaving, her fingers trembling against her cane.

"This isn’t over," she whispered, her breath hot and foul against my skin. "I am coming back with the court bailiffs. And when I am done with you... you will beg for the workhouse."

She turned on her heel and swept out into the night, her enforcers slamming the heavy doors behind her.

I stood in the quiet hall, my heart hammering, my palm still stinging.

Higgins stepped forward, his voice tight. "Mrs. Guggenheim... are you alright?"

"I’m fine." I stared at the faint trace of blood on my fingers. "I’m fine."

I climbed the stairs, my legs heavy as lead. When I entered my bedchamber, Gary was pacing the floor like a caged animal.

"Clara! What happened? I heard—"

The door swung wide before he could finish.

Casimir stood in the threshold.

He didn’t look like the man I knew. His coat was torn, his hair disheveled. Fresh, wet blood was smeared across his knuckles, and he smelled overpoweringly of rain, iron, and gunpowder.

"Casimir—" I rushed toward him. "Where were you? Aunt Cornelia broke in—she attacked me—"

He didn’t look at my bruised cheek. His stormy eyes were hollow, dead, and entirely unblinking.

"Pack a bag," he rasped.

"What?"

"Pack light. We leave now."

"Leaving?!" I grabbed his arm. "Casimir, talk to me! What happened?"

He shoved past me, ripping open the wardrobe doors and throwing clothes recklessly onto the bed. His movements weren’t calculated or controlled. They were frantic.

"Casimir, stop!" I yanked his shoulder, forcing him to face me. "Tell me what’s going on!"

He froze. He looked down at me, and for the first time since I had met him, I saw something in his eyes that chilled me to the marrow.

Pure, unadulterated terror.

"I am taking you out of here." His voice cracked. It was a sound I had never heard from him. A sound I never wanted to hear again.

"What? Why? Who are we running from?" The words tumbled out, tripping over each other. My fingers dug into his blood-stained sleeves, trying to pull his attention back to me. "The board? The police? Bartholomew? Casimir, please! You have to tell me what the fuck is happening!"

Casimir pulled his arm away and reached for my face, cradling my swollen cheek in his blood-stained palm so carefully, as if I were made of glass.

"Everyone," he whispered, his thumb tracing the split on my lip. "There is no trial, Clara. There is only a hunt. And we are out of time."