Chapter 173 - One Hundred-Seventy-Three: A Glimpse of the Future

//CLARA//

My fingers were permanently stained with black ink, and if I had to look at one more wax-sealed envelope, I was going to use my dual-knife to shred the entire library.

The desk was completely buried under stacks of imported vellum, layout maps of the grand ballroom, and complex seating charts were spread across every available surface, covered in my frantic, barely legible scrawl.

A half-empty cup of tea had gone cold hours ago, and somewhere beneath a pile of guest lists, I was pretty sure I’d lost my mind.

I didn’t even bother to lift my head when the door opened. The weight of his footfalls against the rug gave him away instantly.

"You’re tracking dirt on the Persian rug, Casimir," I muttered, dipping my pen into the inkwell.

"And you’ve been sitting in that exact position for four hours," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled from behind me.

A large, calloused hand descended over my shoulder, instantly filling the space around me with his presence.

I felt his gaze drop down to the stack of finished invitations drying on the corner of the blotter. He reached past my ear, picking up one of the silver-foiled cards and turned it over.

Then, a prolonged silence filled the room.

I finally paused my steel dip pen, leaning back against his chest as he stood over me. I looked up, catching the deep, prominent furrow between his dark brows.

"What is this?"

"An invitation," I said dryly. "Usually, people send them out so guests know when to show up and pretend they want to be there."

"I can read the words, Clara," he murmured, dropping the card back onto the desk and tapped the center line. "What I cannot comprehend is the theme and the dress code...Structural silhouettes? Monochromatic uniformity? No traditional family crests?"

"Exactly," I said, spinning around to face him fully. I crossed my arms, tilting my head. "It’s a glimpse of the future. Met Gala. Modern. Sleek. Something that will make the society uncomfortable without them being able to explain why."

"Met Gala?"

"It’s..." I paused, scrambling for an explanation. "It’s a term I read in a book. A gathering where the elite dress to reflect a theme. I thought it might be interesting to bring something new to the city."

Casimir leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, towering over me even while resting. He picked up the card again, staring at the abstract, minimalist design.

"Society expects heritage. They expect to show up in their historical family colors so everyone knows exactly who they are."

I shrugged, a small, entirely unbothered smile pulling at my lips.

"And that is precisely why we are stripping it away from them. Far much better than a boring masquerade ball."

Casimir arched a single brow.

"And where, exactly, did you get the idea of a modern future? This isn’t just unconventional, Clara. This borders on scandalous."

"I discussed it with Elias," I lied smoothly. "He was complaining about the lack of creative vision and the boring aesthetic. We agreed that if we force the rival syndicates into an environment where they cannot rely on their usual old-world visual cues, we completely disrupt their footing."

Casimir didn’t move. He kept his eyes trained on me.

"Elias? The same Elias who cowers at my presence? Try again."

"Fine." I leaned forward. "Call it a flash of creative intuition. It doesn’t matter where it came from. The point is that it works. Look at the sketches on the side table. I have Oliver working on it. He’s been helping me bring these to life."

Casimir’s gaze flicked over to the smaller table against the wall. Sprawled across it were several large sheets of parchment, covered in my own detailed ink drawings.

He straightened up, walking over to the table. I watched his face as he looked down at the pages.

The sketches weren’t of lace or traditional floral arrangements. The first was a laptop with its screen glowing with a blue light. The second was a smartphone. The third was an airplane, its wings cutting through the clouds. The fourth was a car, streamlined and elegant, so different from the hulking carriages of the era.

I had labeled them all as abstract futuristic metalwork to keep Oliver from burning them for heresy.

Casimir picked up the sketch of the airplane, his fingers tracing the wide, sweeping wings and the cylindrical hull.

"What is this shape?"

"Art," I said immediately. "Futuristic sculptures. They’re going to be mounted as centerpieces throughout the grand ballroom."

Casimir turned the page, looking at the drawing of the modern sports car.

"It looks like a carriage, but entirely devoid of horse rigging. The lines are... remarkably aerodynamic. Almost bizarrely efficient."

"It’s an interpretation of velocity," I improvised, keeping my tone perfectly casual. "The future is about speed, Casimir. It’s about moving forward so fast that the past can’t catch up to you."

Casimir stared at them. The tactical gears inside his mind were practically visible behind his eyes before understanding began to smooth out the frown on his face.

"Weaponized distraction," he murmured.

"See? I knew you’d get it," I said, crossing my legs. "Think about the logistics. When they walk into that ballroom, they aren’t going to be looking at each other’s throats. They are going to be completely blindsided by the absurdity of the decor."

Casimir nodded.

"They will spend the first half of the evening attempting to look cultured enough to understand the art, and the second half trying to figure out if the theme."

"Exactly," I grinned.

He turned and loomed over my chair. The smirk on his face suddenly faded, replaced by scrutiny. He gently grabbed my chin, tilting my face up so I had no choice but to look directly into the stormy depths of his eyes.

"It’s flawless," Casimir rasped. "But it still does not answer my question, little bird. The sketches look... bizarrely realistic. These aren’t just random shapes, Clara. They possess a terrifying amount of structural logic."

My heart did a quick flip against my ribs, but I kept my expression deadpan. I sighed, letting out a weary, exhausted breath.

"I told you, Casimir. I was stressed," I mumbled, offering him the flimsiest, most ridiculous excuse I could summon.

"I’ve been staring at these seating charts for days. I had a dream. A very long, incredibly weird dream filled with loud, metallic noises, giant flying metal birds, and people staring at tiny glowing bricks in their hands. I woke up, the shapes were stuck in my head, and I drew them. It’s a lame excuse, but it’s all I’ve got."

Casimir stared at me for three agonizingly long seconds. I didn’t blink. I didn’t pull away from his grip.

Slowly, the tension in his jaw relaxed, and a soft chuckle vibrated deep inside his chest. He released my chin, only to wrap his large arms around my waist, lifting me effortlessly out of the leather chair and pulling my front flush against his solid chest.

"Every single time I believe I have finally mapped out the boundaries of your mind, little bird," he murmured against my hair, "you open another entirely hidden layer of yourself. You never cease to amaze me."

He pressed a firm, lingering kiss against the side of my neck, right over a faint purple mark his own teeth had left hours prior.

I forced a smile to my face, leaning my head against his shoulder to hide the sudden, cold spike of guilt that settled flat in the pit of my stomach.

Right, I thought. Enjoy the magic trick while it lasts, big guy. Because if you ever find out the actual truth, I’m not entirely sure if you’ll still be amazed, or if you’ll have the church guards hang me upside down in the town square for witchcraft.

"Get back to work." Casimir’s hands lingering on my hips for a fraction of a second longer before he stepped away toward the library doors. "We still have an entire society to disrupt."