MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle

//CLARA//

The door to Casimir’s bedroom clicked open.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

I was currently bundled like a human burrito dead center in the middle of his bed, buried under his silk comforter with his coat still wrapped tightly around my naked, throbbing shoulders. Every muscle in my body felt like it had been systematically disassembled and put back together backward.

Hattie stepped into the room, carrying a fresh stack of thick towels. She didn’t say a single word. She didn’t even look toward the bed. For a woman who had seen entirely too much, she went straight to work, turning the brass handles to fill the adjacent clawfoot tub and pouring a heavy, fragrant stream of lavender and eucalyptus essential oils into the steaming water.

"Mr. Guggenheim left about twenty minutes ago, miss," Hattie announced softly, her back still turned. "He mentioned something came up regarding the eastern docks that required his immediate, personal attention."

"Of course he did," I croaked, my voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "The man has the stamina of a demonic entity and the schedule of a prime minister. It’s frankly offensive."

"He did specify that you were not to be disturbed until noon," Hattie added, finally turning around with a perfectly schooled, neutral expression. "Though it appears it is already half-past one."

"Don’t look at me," I mumbled, pulling the coat higher around my neck. "I was held hostage by a tyrant who apparently thinks city tax documents are an aphrodisiac."

"I shall adjust the water temperature to be slightly hotter, then," Hattie said, without a single hint of judgment in her voice. "To help with the... fatigue."

With a monumental effort that required all my remaining willpower, I unrolled myself from the blankets. My legs were still shaking so badly I looked like a newborn fawn trying to navigate ice as I padded across the cold floorboards.

I practically slid into the tub, letting out a long, ragged sigh that bordered on a moan as the piping hot water swallowed me whole.

Instantly, my tight muscles began to loosen. The deep, heavy soreness throbbing between my thighs didn’t even hurt anymore. It faded into a dull, blissful ache that felt dangerously like a victory lap.

Hattie stepped up behind the tub, gently wetting my hair with a silver pitcher before massaging a rich, sudsy lavender soap into my scalp. Her hands were soothing, but as she moved down to lather my shoulders and arms, I caught her gaze in the vanity mirror. Her uneasy, wide eyes kept darting across my skin.

It wasn’t hard to see why. I looked like I had survived a skirmish with a jaguar. Casimir had left a literal constellation of deep purple hickeys, teeth marks, and dark bruises tracking from the hollow of my throat all the way down my ribs.

There was a particularly vivid mark on my collarbone that looked like he’d tried to bite through the bone. Another on my inner thigh, right where the whiskey had found the scratch. I was a walking crime scene, and the only perpetrator was currently off managing his empire.

"Hattie," I murmured, closing my eyes. "Spit it out before you bore a hole in my shoulder with your eyes."

The girl froze, the soap suds pooling in her palms. She lowered her head, her cheeks flushing a deep, distressed red.

"It’s... it’s the lower house staff, miss. The kitchen maids and the stable boys. They’ve been... whispering."

I opened one eye, peering at her. "And what exactly are they whispering about over the potato peeling?"

"They’re saying you and Mr. Guggenheim are having an affair," Hattie whispered, sounding genuinely distress.

"They’re calling you his paramour. His kept woman. One of the scullery maids said you were a scheming little harlot who’d bewitched him with your... your feminine wiles. Another said you probably seduced him the moment you arrived and that you’ve been playing him ever since. They’re saying you’re the reason Aunt Cornelia was sent away, that you manipulated him into turning on his own blood so you could have the house all to yourself."

I blinked. "That’s... actually kind of impressive. I’m giving them credit for creativity."

Hattie blinked. "Miss?"

"An affair." A breathless laugh bubbled right out of my chest. I threw my head back against the porcelain lip of the tub and laughed until my ribs ached. "God, I wish. If it were an affair, I could at least demand a jewelry allowance and set boundaries regarding his desk usage."

"Miss Eleanor, please, it isn’t funny."

Hattie stepped around to the side of the tub, her head bowed deeply.

"I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to tell them that the two of you are already legally husband and wife. That you are the true lady of this estate. But... I know the implications. I know why the marriage must remain a secret from the public eye for now."

She squeezed her eyes shut, a tear escaping down her cheek.

"It just hurts me so deeply to hear them slander your reputation. I apologize that I wasn’t able to defend your honor, miss. That I have to stand there and listen to them drag your name through the mud while I can do nothing."

The humor died in my chest, replaced by a sudden warmth for the girl. I reached out of the water, ignoring the soap suds, and firmly took Hattie’s trembling hand, squeezing it tight until she looked up at me.

"Hattie, look at me." My tone softened. "You don’t have to defend me. You don’t have to pay a single second of attention to them. Let them whisper. Let them think I’m a scandalous prodigal ward ruining the master’s morals. As long as you and I know the absolute truth, those words are nothing but bad, cheap gossip. And bad gossip never broke a single bone."

"But miss—"

"Hattie." I squeezed her hand again. "You’re the only person in this house who actually knows me. The real me. Not the ward, not the orphan, not the mistress. You know I’m his wife. You know I love him. And you know I’m not going anywhere. That’s enough."

Hattie sniffled, looking at our joined hands, before she gave a small, resolute nod. "Yes, miss. You’re right. They know nothing."

"Exactly. Now, finish washing my hair before the water turns cold. I have a disaster to plan."

It took an hour, half a jar of cosmetic cream, and a dress with a collar so high it practically grazed my jawline to make me presentable enough to leave the master wing.

Every step down the staircase was a reminder of Casimir’s complete lack of mercy, my thighs stinging where the whiskey had found the scratches. I had also tucked the dual-knife he gave me attached to my waist, looking entirely discreet despite how deadly it could be.

The house felt different today. The corridors were quieter, the servants more watchful. I caught the maids whispering as I passed, their eyes sliding away the moment I looked at them. The stable boys ducked behind corners. Even the footmen, seemed to be avoiding my gaze.

I didn’t care. Let them think whatever they wanted. I had bigger things to worry about than their gossip.

I needed to clear my head, and more importantly, I needed to check on the progress of the ball invitations before the paperwork completely buried us again. I made my way toward the library, hoping for some quiet, but the moment I pushed the doors open, I realized quiet was a luxury I wasn’t going to get.

Gary was sprawled on the settee, a book open on his chest. His crutches were propped against the armrest, and he looked like he hadn’t moved in hours. He looked up when I walked in, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Well, well. Look who finally emerged from the lion’s den."

"Shut up before I tear your wounds open."

"Feisty." He set the book aside. "How was your... meeting?"

I threw a pillow at his head. He caught it, laughing.

"So," he said, "how’s the MET gala planning going?"

I froze. "What?"

"The ball. Your big event. You’re basically throwing a Gilded Age MET gala, right?"

I stared at him. "That’s... actually not a bad idea."