The next morning, Clara woke to sunlight bleeding through gauzy curtains and the faint hum of the city outside. For a second, she lay still, trying to remember what day it was. Then she saw the note on the nightstand.
It was written on heavy paper, crisp edges, and resting atop a white linen coaster.
Meeting at 8. Back around lunch. I had the driver stock your favorite pastries.
– J
No warmth. No hearts or smiley faces. Just Julian in his usual style. Blunt. Brief. And still, it made something flutter in her chest.
She brushed her fingers across the note, then pushed the covers back and padded to the kitchen. The pastry box was already waiting on the counter, neatly arranged. Cranberry scones. Banana chocolate muffins. One almond croissant.
She bit into it slowly, grateful and confused all at once.
An hour later, after a long shower and a moment staring blankly at the skyline, Clara opened her email.
At the top of her inbox was a message she didn't expect.
Subject: Inquiry – Children's Manuscript Proposal
From: Isla McRae
To: Clara Wynter
Date: Today, 9:12 AM
Clara blinked. Isla McRae was a senior editor at Green Finch Publishing. The Green Finch. The one she had cold-pitched years ago and never heard back from.
She clicked.
Hi Clara,
Your manuscript, When Moonlight Waits, came across my desk recently via a mutual contact. I found the prose delicate and compelling, and I'd love to discuss the possibility of a light developmental edit and potential acquisition.
Are you available for a quick call this week?
Best,
Isla McRae
Senior Editor, Green Finch Publishing
Clara's hand froze on the trackpad.
She hadn't sent that manuscript out in nearly a year. It had been rejected too many times. She stopped counting after fifteen.
Her chest tightened.
Julian.
She hadn't told him much. Only mentioned, once in passing, that she used to write children's stories. She never said the title. Never said she submitted it. But now…
She stood slowly, the chair squeaking under her.
Was he behind this? Did he find someone and send it on her behalf? Or was this truly just a coincidence?
She should have felt thrilled. This was the dream. This was what she wanted before everything became about survival.
But right now? It felt too carefully timed.
She closed the laptop and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Just then, the intercom buzzed.
She walked to the panel and pressed the speaker.
"Yes?"
"It's Mrs. Delacroix, ma'am. There's someone downstairs asking to speak with you. She says it's urgent."
Clara frowned.
"Name?"
"Ms. Vanessa Tan. She says it's regarding a story… and she claims you'll want to hear what she has to say."
Clara's blood ran cold.
Vanessa Tan. That name sounded vaguely familiar. A PR strategist. She had seen the name tied to celebrity management before. Someone known for controlling media narratives and spinning scandals into fairy tales.
What would someone like her want with Clara?
Clara hesitated, then responded.
"Send her up. But let the front desk know not to admit anyone else after her."
"Understood, ma'am."
Clara straightened her blouse and glanced at the still-open laptop screen. The email from Isla McRae stared back at her like a forgotten dream.
This day was starting to feel like a turning point. She just didn't know in which direction it would break.
The elevator chimed softly.
Clara smoothed her hair and stood just a little straighter. Her hands were steady, but only barely.
When the door slid open, Vanessa Tan stepped out like she owned the entire building.
Impeccably dressed in an ivory trench coat with gold buttons, heels that didn't make a sound, and sunglasses she only removed once she was three steps into the penthouse. Her lipstick was a sharp red. Her eyes even sharper.
She looked Clara up and down. Not rudely. Just… clinically. As if assessing inventory.
"You're prettier than the tabloids suggested," Vanessa said, dropping her bag gently on the armchair. "That's inconvenient for Vivienne."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "So this isn't a social call."
Vanessa smiled. "I don't do social calls. I do leverage."
Clara crossed her arms. "Then get to it."
"Of course," Vanessa replied, voice like silk over glass. "Let's skip the dance. I was asked to reach out. Your name is currently circulating in some... less than flattering circles. There's interest in your background, your family's medical debt, your former roommates, and more recently — your pregnancy."
Clara's blood ran cold.
She didn't respond. Not yet.
Vanessa continued, perfectly calm. "Now, you're Julian Blackwell's wife. That name gives you some immunity. But it also paints a target. And someone like Vivienne Ashcroft doesn't miss."
"You work for her?" Clara asked.
"I don't work for anyone. I advise." Vanessa's smile didn't waver. "But I'm here because I've seen women like you get swallowed whole by this world. Your one-night fairytale turned into a very public contract marriage. You're vulnerable."
"I'm not afraid," Clara said softly.
"Good. But you should be ready."
Clara's fingers tightened around the edge of the chair. "What exactly do you want from me?"
Vanessa leaned in, finally removing her sunglasses.
"I'm giving you a choice. You can stay reactive and let others define your story, or you can shape it first. Control the narrative."
"You want me to sell my story?"
Vanessa shrugged. "That's one option. Or we can simply leak the parts you want the public to know. The sympathetic ones. The romantic ones. I specialize in humanizing. If you wait too long, someone else will do it for you — and it won't be so kind."
Clara felt the room tilt slightly.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"Think quickly. The press cycle waits for no one." Vanessa stood, adjusted her coat, and added with a sly smile, "And for what it's worth? If Julian ever tires of playing husband, the world will want to know who the real Clara Wynter is. Don't let them write the ending for you."
She left without another word.
The door clicked shut. Clara stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, she walked to the living room window. The city sparkled beneath her feet — beautiful, distant, and utterly indifferent.
In that moment, she realized something terrifying.
Being married to Julian Blackwell wasn't the end of her struggle.
It was just the beginning.