Julian returned to the penthouse just after sunset. His tie was still in place, but the weight in his shoulders had doubled since he'd left. The day had been grueling—two failed negotiations, one sudden lawsuit from a European partner, and whispers of internal dissent at the board.
But the worst thing?
A voicemail from Vivienne Ashcroft.
He stepped into the elevator and hit the penthouse key, jaw tight. The message had been short. Sweet. Deliberately smug.
"I stopped by earlier. She's quite charming, Julian. Thought you should know."
No context. No apology.
By the time the elevator doors opened, his patience was threadbare.
The lights were dim inside. A tray of untouched tea sat cooling on the side table. And Clara stood by the window, arms folded across her chest, her face unreadable.
Julian stepped in and closed the door behind him. He didn't speak right away.
"You let her in," Clara said quietly.
"I didn't know she was coming."
"She knew my name. Knew I was pregnant. Knew exactly how to find me. So either your security team is failing, or someone is feeding her information."
He removed his coat with slow precision. "I'll deal with her."
"You should've already dealt with her," Clara snapped. "She walked into our home like she still belonged here."
He met her eyes. "She never belonged here."
"Did you love her?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. No drama. Just a truth Clara needed.
Julian crossed the room and set his coat down, but he didn't answer immediately. He looked out the window instead, at the skyline that always made him feel in control. Tonight, it looked distant.
"I respected her," he said at last. "We were compatible on paper. She knew the rules. Knew how to function in my world. We were... convenient."
Clara turned her back to him. "So what am I? Inconvenient?"
Julian's voice lowered. "Unpredictable."
She stiffened.
"And nothing about you fits on paper," he added.
There was silence between them, dense and pulsing.
Then Julian crossed the room again and stopped just behind her. Not touching. Just near enough to speak softly.
"I've never let anyone in before. Not even her."
Clara turned to face him. Her eyes were tired, but fierce. "You married me because I'm having your child. Not because you care."
"I care more than I should."
"Then prove it."
Julian's hand lifted, hovering between them, before he finally rested it gently on her arm. Just that. No more.
"She won't come near you again."
Clara searched his face.
"Why did she leave in the first place?"
His jaw tensed. "Because I never promised her anything more than an alliance. Eventually, she realized I wasn't going to change."
"And with me?"
Julian didn't look away.
"I already have."
Julian barely slept.
He stood in his home office most of the night, a glass of scotch untouched on the edge of the desk, reports open but unread.
Clara had gone to bed without another word.
She didn't slam doors. Didn't cry. But her silence was louder than any fight he'd ever had.
The next morning, he arrived at Blackwell Capital at exactly 7:30 a.m. as usual.
But nothing about his mood was usual.
He bypassed his assistant's questions. Ignored three incoming calls. And walked into the executive meeting fifteen minutes early.
The board was already half-seated, murmuring in clipped tones.
Marcus Lang, his oldest and most persistent opponent, looked up and smiled.
"We were wondering if you'd bring your... wife."
Julian didn't respond. He set down his briefcase, took his seat, and tapped the microphone built into the sleek marble table.
"Before we begin," Julian said, voice even, "I'd like to make a few clarifications regarding recent media coverage."
A few heads lifted.
"The rumors regarding my wife's background are unfounded. Any staff member or external party spreading private information about Clara Wynter—about her family, her pregnancy, or our marriage—will be immediately terminated or legally pursued. There will be zero tolerance."
Silence.
Someone coughed nervously.
Julian's eyes didn't waver.
"She is not a threat to this company. She is my wife. That alone is enough."
Marcus leaned back, smug. "You sure about that? I've heard some concerns from investors who are... hesitant, given the optics."
Julian's jaw flexed.
"Then tell them this. I didn't build this firm by catering to shallow perception. If they're that concerned about who I married, they're welcome to pull their money. We don't need them."
That silenced the room.
The CFO shifted uncomfortably. The legal advisor scribbled something in her notebook. But no one challenged him.
Julian stood.
"This meeting is adjourned. I'll handle the quarterly briefing alone."
He left without waiting for agreement.
Back at the penthouse that evening, Clara found him in the kitchen.
Not the one near the dining room. The one tucked in the back, meant for staff use. He was making tea.
She blinked. "You know how to use a kettle?"
Julian glanced over. "Not very well."
"Is it for you?"
"No. You always drink ginger when you're anxious. I asked Mrs. Delacroix to stock some."
Clara crossed her arms. "You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
The kettle whistled. Julian poured carefully, almost reverently, and set the mug on the island.
Then he looked at her and said, "I fired someone today."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"They gave Vivienne your contact details."
Her breath caught.
"Julian—"
"I also threatened Marcus Lang with investor withdrawal. And informed the board that you are not a liability."
Clara stared at him. "You did all that… for me?"
Julian didn't blink. "No. I did it for us."
Her throat tightened.
This wasn't flowers or declarations. It wasn't romantic in the traditional sense.
But for a man like Julian Blackwell?
This was everything.