//CLARA//
In the twenty-first century, I could have blocked a toxic relative with a thumb-swipe. In 1870, I had to sit in the drawing room and watch Aunt Cornelia's glare sharpen until it was a wonder the upholstery wasn't bleeding.
Two weeks had passed and Oliver's visits were becoming a permanent fixture in the Guggenheim estate.
Today, he was explaining the latest adjustments to the Linotype prototype, his hands sketching diagrams in the air. I listened, nodded, interjected with marketing strategies that made his eyebrows climb.
"Slow down," he said, laughing. "You want to offer the first fifty newspapers a discount if they sign a five-year exclusivity contract? That's—that's genius, but also slightly terrifying."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say slightly." I grinned. "I'm aiming for absolutely terrifying."
The sound of the door opening cut through our laughter. Higgins appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Vanderbilt to call upon Miss Thorne."
