MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle

//CLARA//

Casimir’s thumb remained pressed against my lower lip. His eyes were entirely devoid of light.

He meant every single word. It was terrifying. It was completely unhinged.

"A river of blood sounds incredibly tedious to clean off the imported Persian rugs, Casimir."

For a fraction of a second, the dead calm in his eyes shifted. He didn’t let go immediately. Instead, his grip tightened just enough to remind me that he could snap my jaw if he chose to, his thumb dragging across my bottom lip one last time before his hand dropped back to the silver head of his cane.

"I assure you, the math does not care about your sarcasm." His voice was flat, clinical. "I am an accountant of survival. If a variable threatens the asset, the variable is permanently erased from the column."

"Yes, yes, you’re a very scary, very wealthy calculator." I rolled my eyes, taking a deliberate step backward. "I’ll be sure to mark that down in my diary. ’Day one hundred and something: husband compares me to a column in his ledger. Very romantic. Definitely putting that in the vows for our next wedding.’"

Casimir leaned slightly onto his cane, a faint, amused tilt touching the corner of his mouth.

"You probably should, little bird. You’re stuck with me."

"Lucky me."

I turned on my heel and walked out. The moment the wood separated us, the tight, defensive cord in my chest snapped. I leaned against the corridor wall for a fraction of a second, letting out a long, shaky breath.

Jesus Christ.

I needed a coffee. Or a martini. Or a time machine to take me back to a century where my primary source of stress was a bad Wi-Fi connection, rather than a nineteenth-century syndicate boss who looked at me like I was his personal property.

Worse, I was running a massive, catastrophic lie right under his nose. Every time he called me little bird, every time he looked at me with that possessive intensity, I felt the weight of the truth pressing down on my chest.

He loved Eleanor’s face. He loved the woman he thought I was. What would happen when he found out I was just a ghost wearing her skin?

I smoothed down the skirt of my dress, forced my posture into that of a perfectly composed lady of the manor, and marched down the hallway.

The view outside had changed completely since yesterday.

The guards pacing the perimeter had been tripled. Everywhere I looked, heavy-set men in dark coats and low-brimmed caps were patrolling the snow-dusted grounds. They walked in pairs, their hands tucked significantly into their deep pockets.

Down by the iron gates, Higgins was barking orders, his breath misting in the cold morning air.

I watched them for a moment, my arms crossed. It was one thing to know you were in a war. It was another thing entirely to see the evidence of it marching past your windows.

A soft throat-clearing behind me made me jump. I turned to find Hattie standing at the end of the corridor, looking remarkably composed given the fact that the courtyard currently looked like a mob staging area.

"Miss Eleanor." Hattie gave a small, respectful tilt of her head. "Mr. Oliver Whitfield has arrived. He is requesting a moment of your time."

Oliver. Thank God. A breath of fresh air in a house that had started to feel like a tomb.

"Thank you, Hattie. Please show him in, and have a pot of tea brought up." I smoothed down my skirt as I walked toward the morning room. "The good tea. The one that doesn’t taste like regret."

Hattie’s lips twitched. "Yes, miss."

When I stepped through the double doors, Oliver was already pacing the length of the Persian rug. His coat was dusted with snow, his hair slightly disheveled, and his hands were clasped behind his back in a gesture that reminded me of a man trying very hard not to panic.

The moment he heard my entrance, he spun on his heel, his face breaking into relief.

"Eleanor." He stepped forward, catching both of my hands in his. "Thank God you’re alright. I heard rumors through the shipping channels about an ambush at the northern inn last night."

"Rumors travel fast in New York." I offered him a dry, reassuring smile, gently pulling my hands back and gesturing for him to take a seat on the velvet settee. "But as you can see, I am entirely intact. Casimir took a superficial hit to his flank, but he’s already back to barking orders like nothing happened."

Oliver let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh, sinking onto the settee and rubbing his temples.

"You have a terrifying way of making a literal assassination attempt sound like a minor inconvenience, Eleanor. But seriously, what is going on out there? I had to pass through three separate checkpoints just to get down your driveway. Three, Eleanor. The last time I saw security like that, it was during the draft riots."

"Oh, you know Casimir." I poured two cups of tea as Hattie quietly set down the tray and exited the room. "He doesn’t believe in moderate responses. Why hire a security guard when you can draft a small militia? It’s very on-brand for him. Efficiency over subtlety."

Oliver accepted the cup, but he didn’t drink. He just held it, staring at the dark liquid like it might hold answers.

"Eleanor... it’s not just the guards. The atmosphere in the city is shifting. People are talking. I’ve heard whispers about the syndicate, about power struggles in the shipping districts. Some of my business associates have started carrying firearms. In board meetings, Eleanor. It’s like everyone’s waiting for something to break."

"I know." I set my cup down, my voice softening. "Just be careful out there, Oliver. The city’s changing, and I don’t want you caught in something you didn’t sign up for."

I wanted to tell him more. I wanted to warn him about the syndicate. But the words stuck in my throat. Some truths were too dangerous to share.

He nodded, then reached into the breast pocket of his coat, pulling out a crisp, folded piece of paper. He slid it across the mahogany table toward me.

"I brought the first quarterly distribution check from our Linotype commission." A small, proud smile touched his lips. "I thought you might want to see it in person."

I picked up the paper, unfolding it. When my eyes hit the numbers written in elegant black ink, my breath genuinely caught in my throat. It was a massive, staggering sum of money.

More than even I had expected.

"Oliver..." I looked up at him, my mouth slightly open. "This is incredible. The printing presses are pulling in this much already?"

"The newspapers can’t get enough of them." A proud, sharp glint lit Oliver’s eyes. "We’ve officially monopolized the manufacturing rights for the entire tri-state area. Every major newspaper in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia is using our machines. We’re expanding to Chicago by the end of the quarter."

"You’re almost as rich as the Vanderbilts now. Maybe richer. Certainly better looking. And without the family baggage, which is honestly the bigger win."

Oliver laughed, the tension finally breaking from his shoulders.

"I wouldn’t have made it without you, Eleanor. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t believed in me. If you hadn’t invested when everyone else was laughing."

"You earned it." I set the check down, my eyes meeting his. "You built the machine. I just made sure people knew about it."

"You did more than that." His voice dropped, softer now. "You gave me hope when I didn’t have any. You gave me purpose. I’ll never forget that."

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just nodded, letting the moment settle between us.

Once Oliver was gone, the morning room felt intensely colder. I stared at the check in my hand, a dry smirk touching my lips. The money was good. The money was great. But it also meant something else. I now had options. I wasn’t just a ward anymore. I wasn’t just a wife. I was a woman with resources, with power, with a way out if I needed one.

I tucked the check into my pocket and turned toward the tea tray, planning to head up to Gary’s room at last. I hadn’t checked on him since the morning, and I knew he’d be spiraling without updates.

But before I could take two steps, Hattie re-entered the morning room. She carried a small, silver platter, her face carefully neutral. Resting in the center of the silver was a single, heavy, cream-colored envelope.

"The morning post just arrived, Miss Eleanor." Hattie’s voice dropped into a strangely cautious tone. "This was delivered by a private, unmarked courier. He wouldn’t give his name. He just said it was urgent and left."

Confused, I picked up the envelope. The wax seal on the back was stamped with an elegant crest—one I recognized immediately.

My blood went cold.

I broke the seal with a sharp snap of my thumb, pulling out the thick parchment inside. The handwriting was immaculate, utterly familiar cursive writing that felt entirely venomous even before I read a single word.

Aunt Cornelia.