//CLARA//
I didn't sleep.
I spent the night pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged lion, poking at things, hoping they would betray a price tag that hadn't been removed, and whispering, "Siri, end simulation."
Siri didn't answer, and the ornamental displays were solid antiques.
By dawn, I had reached the five stages of grief and settled firmly on the sixth: fuck this shit.
If I was stuck in a world without internet and electricity, I was going to make it everyone else's problem.
I have read through the diary from cover to cover. If I'm remembering the family tree correctly, Bartholomew Vanderbilt. My actual great-grandfather was the man Eleanor eventually married. It was a cold-blooded merger, sanctioned by Casimir to consolidate their business empires.
But the diary doesn't paint a portrait of a gentleman. Bartholomew was a piece of work. A cruel, neglectful, and essentially absent husband. Once Eleanor checked the "produce heirs" box on her to-do list, he spent the rest of his life frolicking with high-society mistresses and whoever else caught his eye in the city's red-light districts.
I sigh dejectedly, dropping onto the bed and letting my back hit the mattress with a heavy thud that definitely didn't have the cloud-like bounce of my hybrid memory foam at home. This was pure, vintage resistance.
I just lay there, staring up at the canopy of my four-poster bed, waiting for a "Return to Home" button to manifest in the silk drapes while my brain tried to process a world with zero bars of service.
A sharp knock at the door jolted me into the realization that morning had already taken over my room. The heavy oak swung open, revealing a girl who looked like she was barely pushing twelve.
Based on the diary's cast list, this had to be Hattie.
It's wild that even Eleanor is only eighteen herself, and I still can't fathom a world where underage is apparently just another word for full-time employee. I'm pretty sure child labor laws are a few decades too late for her.
"Good morning, Miss Thorne. I've brought your lemon water and the mourning dress."
I stared at the dress bundled in her thin arms. It was a black abyss of crepe and heavy wool. It looked like it weighed more than my luggage for Coachella.
"Absolutely not," I frowned, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing my arms.
"That fabric is a literal crime against my skin barrier. It's scratchy, it's suffocating, and it's honestly depressing as hell. Not to mention the aesthetic. I'm not trying to look like an expensive crow, Hattie. I have a brand to maintain, even if the only followers I have right now is you and a bunch of portraits of dead people."
Hattie blinked, her mouth hanging open like a fish out of the water. She clutched the dress to her chest like a shield. Her brow furrowed in a genuine, wide-eyed bewilderment, showing her current dilemma of whether to call a doctor or a priest.
"But, Miss… you are in deep mourning. Your mother and Mr. Thorne—"
"I am fully aware of the tragedy that had befallen me, Hattie," I snapped, though I felt a twinge of guilt.
I didn't know these people, but great-grandmother Eleanor did. So I smiled at her sweetly, toning down my words for her to understand me.
"If I wear that, I'll get a rash. If I get a rash, I'll itch. If I itch, I'll be irritable. Do you want me to be irritable when I meet the master of the house? He seems like the type who appreciates a calm environment."
Hattie looked like she was ready to faint, but she nodded vehemently, somehow scared of disturbing Casimir's peace.
"Oh, miss! I… I shall go at once to the seamstress and inquire if there be a lighter silk to be had, one less… depressing," she stammered, curtsying so low she nearly tipped over.
"Pray, forgive my slowness, Miss Thorne. It'll be in a moment!"
"Fabulous. And while you're at it, tell the chef… I mean the cook. I need my egg poached, not fried. I have a very delicate gut. If there's grease, I'll bloat. If I bloat, I'll cry. Do you want to be the one to tell Mr. Guggenheim that I'm crying because of breakfast?"
I was laying it on thick with bad apple logic, and it worked. Hattie scurried away as if the devil himself were wearing my nightgown.
An hour later, I was cinched into a slightly more breathable silk and lace mourning gown. Though it was still jet black, a coffin with sleeves, I looked incredible. Especially with the corset highlighting my curves and making my cleavage more pronounced.
My hair is also a mile long, trailing down toward my ankles like some sort of high-maintenance fairytale nightmare.
It's a lot to manage, but Hattie actually pulled off a miracle, pinning it all neatly onto my head without a single stray flyaway. I'll be honest, I have to hand it to her. The girl's got some serious talent. It's basically an architectural feat without the help of a single spritz of hairspray.
However, the punishing braids coiled at the nape of my neck with a battalion of pins felt like a helmet. A beautiful, heavy, historically accurate helmet.
I made my way down the grand staircase, my heels clicking against the marble. The house was a tomb of dark wood and stifling silence.
Casimir is already in the breakfast room. He was sitting at the head of a table long enough to host a bowling tournament, reading a newspaper that was roughly the size of a bedsheet.
The morning light caught the sharp line of his cheekbone, making him look like an ever more dangerous work of art sculpted by Michelangelo himself.
God, I finally get it.
Looking at him is like staring into the sun. You know it's a bad idea, but you just can't look away. I can see exactly why Eleanor was so hopelessly fixated on him, and honestly? My modern cynicism is doing a terrible job of protecting me.
He didn't look up, but I saw his shoulders locked, acknowledging my presence and trying not to lose his composure.
"You're up late, Eleanor. Propriety dictates—"
"Propriety doesn't have a migraine," I interrupted, pulling out the chair nearest to him instead of sitting at the far end where a place was set.
I gave the chair a good, hard yank, making it screech across the floor with a sound so piercing it could've woken the dead.
Honestly, in my defense, the thing was solid mahogany and weighed more than my last three boyfriends combined.
The high-pitched wail made his fingers dig into his morning paper, the edges crinkling under his grip. I sat down with a flourish, making sure my movements were extra graceful and totally unnecessary.
I was definitely overdoing the "fragile Victorian ward" act, but if I was stuck in this period drama, I was going to be the most extra one he'd ever encountered.
"Oh, by the way, I don't go by Eleanor anymore. It's too many syllables. Call me Clara instead."
Casimir lowered the paper slowly. His storm-gray eyes locked into mine, flickering with confusion and dark intensity.
"Since when were you called Clara?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "That is a name for a housemaid. You are a Thorne under Guggenheim's protection. You will respect the dignity of your station."
I bristled, feeling personally attacked that my actual name was considered 'low-tier' in this era.
Quick note to myself. When I get back to the present time, Mom is getting a very long, very loud phone call about her naming choices.
"I know how to respect my station, thank you very much," I replied. "But what I prefer to be called is nobody's business but mine."
A naughty idea sparked in my mind. I leaned forward, slowly closing the gap until the scent of his skin filled my senses. He didn't move nor pull away from me.
I let my gaze seductively drop to his lips before drifting back up to his eyes.
"Besides," my voice turned to a conspiratorial whisper. "Only you get to call me Clara. Everyone else can stick to the boring formalities. Doesn't that make you feel... special?"
I reached out, my fingers hovering just a fraction of an inch from his hand on the linen tablecloth. I didn't even have to touch him. I saw the pulse at the base of his thumb jump, betraying his stoic mask.
Caught you.
I flashed him a sweet, sugary smile and straightened in my seat, the picture of innocence.
"I'm in a very fragile state today, Casimir. The shipwreck... the loss... the lack of a decent moisturizer... it's all just so taxing."
I let my head loll back against the velvet chair, looking at him through the thick fringe of my lashes. I let one finger trace the edge of my plate in a slow, rhythmic motion designed to keep his eyes right where I wanted them.
Casimir was practically frozen in his seat, but I saw it.
A tiny flicker in his eyes, tracking my restless fingers up to my face. I tried to ignore the goosebumps rising on my skin where his gaze had lingered and feigned a puppy-eyed innocence.
"What?"
"You called me Casimir."
I blinked, replaying my last sentence in my head.
Oh, right. I keep forgetting that in this time, using a first name is basically equivalent to hook-ups unless consented to. But honestly? I was too exhausted by the time-travel drama to care about it.
I offered him a nonchalant shrug, my modern lack of filter clashing beautifully with his rigid posture.
"Is Casimir your name, or is it not? Have I been gravely misinformed by the household staff?"
I tilted my head, watching him. For a heartbeat, his stare changed, searching my face for the timid, predictable girl he remembered. His lips seemed to twitch, for moment that I thought I might have imagined.
"No," he replied. "You may call me whatever you like… but only when we are alone."
I raised an eyebrow. Only in private?
The implication was heavy enough to sink a ship. I wanted to push him on it, but I caught the edge of dismissal in his voice. He might be fascinated by me, but if his patience snapped, I had a feeling I'd end up in a ditch, or worse, a convent.
"Fine," I conceded, not liking the idea of being a nun. "Because calling you Mr. Guggenheim every time is far too exhausting for a woman in my fragile state."
He sighed deeply, somehow defeated.
"You are different," he murmured, more to himself than to me. His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. "The girl I knew was… quiet. Reserved."
"The girl you knew was boring," I countered, flashing him a sharp, knowing grin.