Chapter 178 - One Hundred-Seventy-Eight: The Feeding Frenzy

//CLARA//

The flash powder ignited with a deafening pop, blinding white light searing straight through my retinas.

Thick, sulfurous smoke drifted across the gilded foyer of the grand ballroom, smelling like a firework exploded in an ash bucket. I stood frozen in the middle of it all, my jaw locked, my brain dropping into complete and total radio silence.

A dozen reporters pressed forward, their shouting a wall of noise. Hungry, sharp-eyed men in rumpled suits scribbled furiously on paper pads, while photographers nearly tripped over their heavy tripods to capture the spectacle.

I spent years in the high-fashion trenches of modern Manhattan. I have survived back-alley paparazzi traps, predatory tabloid writers, and live-streamed wardrobe malfunctions with a smooth, effortless smile.

My media-trained brain usually jumps straight into damage-control mode. Control the narrative. Neutralize the leak. Spin the angle.

Not tonight. Tonight, my high-powered PR brain went entirely, completely dark.

Because right across the foyer, framed by a second wave of shouting press hounds, stood Bartholomew.

Bartholomew. Fucking. Vanderbilt.

"Mr. Vanderbilt! Over here!"

He didn’t look like a proud Vanderbilt heir. He looked like a corpse someone had dragged out of a ditch and forced into evening wear. His left collarbone sat at a grotesque, crooked angle beneath his velvet coat, and thick purple bruising bloomed up his neck, peeking past his crisp white cravat.

He leaned heavily on an ivory-handled cane, his right leg dragging slightly as he shifted his weight. A jagged split across his lower lip gave his face a permanent, bloody-minded sneer as he dropped calculated, ambiguous little bombs.

"Gentlemen, please—one at a time," Bartholomew rasped.

"Mr. Vanderbilt! Did Miss Thorne conspire against you?" a journalist from the Sun shouted over the crowd. "Where have you been held for the past month?"

"I’m merely a victim of unfortunate circumstances, gentlemen..." His voice carried over the din, smooth as oil poured over a wound. "Ask Mr. Guggenheim and my runaway bride. I’m sure they can give you a far more... detailed account of my misfortunes than I ever could."

The reporters seized on the name like piranhas. Within seconds, half the pack turned on their heels, charging across the marble floor straight toward us.

"Mr. Guggenheim! Is it true? Were you behind Mr. Vanderbilt’s disappearance?"

"Did you have him attacked, sir?"

"Is it true what Mr. Vanderbilt is insinuating? Did you have him beaten?"

"Mr. Guggenheim! Did you try to kill him?"

"Who is Mrs. Guggenheim, sir? Is Mr. Vanderbilt referring to a clandestine marriage?"

For a moment, the questions aimed at Casimir. Then one of them—a sharp-eyed woman at the front—turned her gaze to me. And I felt the weight of every camera in the room shift.

"Miss Thorne! Look over here! Miss Thorne, what’s your say in this?"

"Did you desert your wedding for your guardian?"

"Are you more than just a Guggenheim ward?"

"Did you marry your guardian in secret?"

"Are you and Mr. Guggenheim lovers?"

"Miss Thorne! After leaving Mr. Vanderbilt at the altar, did you run straight into your guardian’s bed?"

"Was the jilting part of the plan all along?"

"Did you stand him up because you were already married?"

"Miss Thorne! Is the marriage consummated?"

No...this can’t be.

How—How is this happening? How is he breathing? Casimir’s men literally hauled him away. He was supposed to be dealt with! How on earth did he escape Casimir’s clutches?

Before I could even process the existential nightmare of a dead man walking, a massive hand gripped my upper arm with iron force.

Casimir stepped directly into the barrage of light, his broad frame completely blocking me from the aggressive sea of snapping lenses. He didn’t flinch at the blinding pops. He didn’t blink.

"Gentlemen. This event has concluded," Casimir announced, slicing through the chaos with the lethal authority of a man who owned half the railways in the country. "You will remove yourselves from my property immediately."

"Mr. Guggenheim! Just one word on your ward—"

"No more questions."

"But Mr. Guggenheim—"

"The ball is over," Casimir repeated. "You are trespassing. Leave now, or I will have you removed by force."

"Miss Thorne! Are you and Mr. Guggenheim secretly wed?" a reporter yelled, shoving his pencil inches from my nose.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

"Higgins!" Casimir barked, not even glancing at the lead reporter.

Higgins appeared out of the smoke, flanked by four towering security guards.

"Clear the foyer. Escort these gentlemen off the estate grounds immediately. If a single pad or camera remains in this house in three minutes, have them thrown into the Hudson."

"Right this way, gentlemen," Higgins boomed, stepping between the press and us, physically shoving the crowd back toward the grand mahogany doors.

Casimir didn’t wait for the room to clear. He locked his fingers around mine, turning on his heel and half-dragging me out of the ballroom, down the long, mirrored gallery, and straight toward his private study.

I couldn’t feel my legs. My dress was swishing wildly around my bare knees as I tried to keep up with his brutal pace.

He threw the door of his study open, pulled me inside, and slammed it shut, sliding the heavy brass deadbolt into place with a sharp clack.

The absolute silence of the room hit me like a physical blow.

And that’s when my chest completely collapsed.

"Clara?"

I couldn’t catch air. My lungs snapped shut, refusing to expand. Without a tight corset squeezing my ribs, there was literally nothing physically stopping me from breathing, but my brain was convinced I was suffocating.

I stumbled back against the edge of his desk, my hands flying to my collarbones, my breath coming out in ragged, high-pitched hitches.

In. Out. In. Out. Except it was just in-in-in, short, panicked gasps that did zero good.

"Hey. Look at me," Casimir’s voice was suddenly right there.

He was in front of me in a second, his hands coming up to firmly cup my face, his thumbs brushing over my burning cheeks. His stormy eyes were fierce, searching my panicked face.

"Breathe, Clara. You’re safe. Breathe."

"He’s... he’s..." I managed to choke out, my eyes wide and wild as I stared up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Casimir... how? How is he out there? You said... you said he was taken care of!"

Casimir’s jaw flexed, a shadow of fury passing over his features before he forced his expression back into terrifying calm. He slid one arm around my waist, lifting me effortlessly to sit on the edge of the desk so I didn’t collapse onto the floor.

"I know," he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against mine, his warm breath fanning over my cold lips. "I know. We will figure out who bought his way out. But right now, you need to draw air into your lungs. Do it for me. Come on, little bird. Please."

I pressed my hands against his chest, feeling the solid, steady, slow thud of his heart beneath his dress coat. I locked onto that rhythm, forcing my chest to expand, taking one long, shaky, shuddering breath.

"There," he whispered, his thumb lightly tracing my trembling lower lip. "That’s it. Good girl."

I leaned into his touch, my brain finally coming back online, bringing a wave of cold, sharp anger right behind the panic.

"He just set a trap," I whispered, still breathless, but finally to get a grip on myself. "He showed up broken to look like a victim, dropped just enough poison to ruin my reputation, and handed the press a conspiracy. If they print that I ran away from my wedding straight into my guardian’s bed—"

"Let them print whatever they want," Casimir cut in, his eyes darkening as his gaze fell to where my dress had parted, exposing my leg through the high slit.

He didn’t back away. He stepped closer between my knees, his hands resting possessively on my waist.

"Bartholomew thinks he just put me on the defensive."

"He did," I said, my breathing finally leveling off as I glared up at him. "He turned my host debut into a public circus!"

"No, little bird," Casimir murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a dangerous shiver straight down my spine. "He gave me an excuse to stop playing nice."