//CLARA//
My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I didn't let the mask slip. I couldn't. I wasn't about to hand my trust over to a man who called me Clara out in public—tossing my real name around as casually as if we were at some pop-icon convention or an autograph meet-and-greet.
I channeled every ounce of Eleanor's demure, high-society energy. I smoothed my skirts, tucked my chin, and turned around with a polite, vacant smile that wouldn't have looked out of place at a funeral.
"I'm sorry," I said, tilting my head with just the right amount of practiced confusion. "Who?"
The man blinked, looking a little winded. He was familiar. Distressingly familiar. But the math wasn't adding up. This man was tall, fit, and looked like he spent his mornings lifting actual dumbbells. He looked like a photograph I'd seen once and forgotten, or a movie star playing a part he didn't quite understand.
"Oh… oh, gosh. I—I apologize," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck.
