//CLARA//
Casimir left the next morning. Seven days of silence followed, and I learned exactly what emotional whiplash felt like.
I woke each morning with the ghost of his touch. I touched the fading bruise on my breast where his teeth had been and felt the ache of unfinished business settle deep in my bones.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and withdrawal reinforces desire. But somewhere between day three and four, everything collapsed.
I missed him. Not as a means to an end. I just missed the impossible tension of standing next to a man who made every nerve feel like live wire.
On the seventh day, his carriage appeared. I watched from my window, waiting.
Nothing.
Dinner that night was even worse than I thought. Casimir sat at the head of the table and did not look at me once. He discussed business with Bartholomew—who had materialized like the bad penny he was—and behaved as if I did not exist.
On the tenth day, Aunt Cornelia descended with news.
