[CONTENT WARNING: This story contains explicit sexual content, graphic violence, strong language, and themes of trauma. It is intended for mature audiences (18+) only. Reader discretion is strongly advised.]

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“Talk dirty to me,” I whispered.
He growled low in his throat. “You want filthy, little bird?”
“Yes.”
He thrust deeper, harder, and leaned close, his lips brushing my ear.
“I am going to fill your fucking cunt with so much cum that you will still be dripping until tomorrow. You will sit at breakfast with my seed soaking through your drawers and smile at Aunt Cornelia like the proper little slut you are.”
I moaned. “That is disgusting.”
“You asked for it.”
“Again.”
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Clara Vance had it all.

Millions of followers, a beauty empire built on glamour, and a life curated for the camera. But a lost bet with her mother sends her away from a marvelous weekend trip to Mykonos and into the dusty attic of her family’s decaying ancestral manor. 

The catch was her inheritance. Her task? A dreary clear-out. Her discovery? A centuries-old diary belonging to her great-grandmother, Eleanor Thorne.

The ink tells a story of a forgotten history. Eleanor’s forbidden obsession with her guardian and step-uncle, Casimir Guggenheim, a ruthless railroad tycoon with a heart of stone.

But when Clara touches the tear-stained pages, the scent of crushed gardenias doesn’t just fill the room, it drags her back to 1879.

Trapped in Eleanor’s corseted body, Clara finds herself under the roof of the very man who haunted the diary. To the world, Casimir is a cold, untouchable magnate. To Clara, he’s a puzzle she’s determined to break.

The problem? Clara isn’t the timid, fragile girl Casimir remembers. She’s a 21st-century It Girl with no filter, a strategic mind for business, a total lack of respect for Gilded Age propriety and a defiance waiting for trouble to happen. While the original Eleanor was a victim of her station, Clara is ready to burn the cage down.

As Clara navigates a world where a single misstep means ruin, scheming relatives see her as a pawn, and a powerful suitor sees her as nothing but a business merger. She realizes the history books were wrong. 

Rewriting Eleanor’s tragic end is dangerous, especially when she starts falling for the man she was never supposed to have.
History says they’re a tragedy. Clara says history is about to get a makeover.

I admired Adelaide Chase's gown openly, letting my gaze travel over the intricate lace, the delicate stitching that had probably taken some poor seamstress days to complete. It was the kind of dress that was meant to be seen under the chandeliers of a palace.


"What a beautiful dress, Miss Chase." I smiled, all sisterly warmth and hidden knives. "The stitching is simply exquisite. Paris?"


I was grace itself. The epitome of refined ladyhood. As if I hadn't spent the last hour imagining her sacked and sinking to the bottom of the Newport harbor. Maybe weighted with rocks.


"Oh, Miss Thorne. You look lovely." Adelaide preened as she turned to me, giving me a cheek-to-cheek kiss that society required and nobody meant. "I had it custom made from a little shop near the Rue de la Paix. I could give you the name, if you'd like."


Chapter 97 - Chapter Ninety-Seven: Menace