Julian walked into the penthouse just before noon, dressed in a dark navy suit that looked freshly pressed despite what Clara imagined had been a relentless morning. He paused only briefly at the threshold, scanning the room like he always did, as though checking for changes that might unsettle him.
His eyes found Clara almost immediately.
She was seated on the far end of the sofa, laptop open but untouched. Her hands were in her lap, twisting the hem of her cardigan. The expression on her face made him slow down.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
She looked up. Calm on the surface. But Julian was beginning to notice the tiny giveaways. The too-still posture. The slightly parted lips. The delay before answering.
"A woman came by," Clara said.
Julian stilled.
"Vanessa Tan. Does the name mean anything to you?"
His jaw locked for half a second. Then he moved to the minibar and poured himself a glass of water. Not whiskey. Not wine. Just water. That alone told her how much control he was trying to keep.
"She shouldn't have come here," he said at last.
"She did. And she came with threats dressed up as advice."
Julian set the glass down, still untouched.
"Did she say who sent her?"
"She didn't need to," Clara replied. "It was Vivienne. Or Marcus. Maybe both."
Julian didn't look surprised.
Clara closed her laptop with a soft click. "You told me we'd be safe here. That I could breathe, at least for a little while. Was that just another promise in your contract?"
The question wasn't loud. But it sliced through the air all the same.
Julian finally turned to face her. His expression didn't crack. Not yet. But there was something simmering behind his eyes.
"I underestimated how fast they would move," he said. "That was my mistake."
"One I'll be paying for," Clara said quietly.
"No," Julian replied. "One I will fix."
She studied him. The way his hands curled just slightly into fists. The way his gaze lingered on her for longer than usual, as if trying to measure how much damage had been done.
"Did you send my manuscript to Green Finch?" she asked, changing the subject so abruptly that it caught him off guard.
His brows twitched.
"I might have mentioned your name to someone in passing. That was weeks ago."
"Isla McRae emailed me. She said she read my story."
Julian walked toward her slowly.
"I didn't think it would amount to anything. I just knew you wouldn't send it yourself. So I sent it to someone I trust."
Clara looked down at her hands. The silence stretched.
"You didn't ask me."
Julian stopped a few steps away. "No. I didn't."
"And I didn't say thank you."
"You don't have to."
"I still want to."
She stood, suddenly needing to move, to walk, to do anything but sit still in this massive room filled with too much space and not enough answers.
"I don't know how to play this game," she said. "I don't know how to make press disappear, or how to survive when women like Vivienne come knocking at my door with claws painted gold. But I do know how to speak for myself. I know how to write. I know how to stand up when it matters."
Julian watched her carefully.
"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Julian. I just need to know that when I fight them, you're not going to disappear."
He stepped forward. No sudden movements. Just enough to close the distance.
"I won't disappear."
Clara searched his face, looking for cracks. Lies. Old shadows pretending to be sincerity.
But there was something else instead. Something rare. Real.
He wasn't offering softness. Not yet. But he was offering presence. And in Julian Blackwell's world, that was no small thing.
"Then let me decide how to tell my story," she said softly. "I'll be damned if Vivienne Ashcroft is the one who writes the first chapter of my public life."
Julian nodded once.
"Then let's write it together."
For a moment, they stood in that quiet space, the city humming far below, and for once, it didn't feel like two strangers occupying the same home.
It felt like something beginning.
Even if neither of them knew what, exactly, it would become.
Clara hadn't worn heels in weeks.
The last time she had was the night her life changed. That night, her heel had broken, and she had fallen into Julian Blackwell's arms like the beginning of a cliché. Now, she slipped into a modest pair of black block heels, the kind that looked sharp without screaming for attention. A fitted navy dress followed, paired with a cream blazer Harper had insisted she keep for "boss energy moments."
This felt like one of them.
Julian stood by the front window, a phone to his ear. He watched her while pretending not to.
She could feel it. The way his gaze swept from the back of her neck to the shape of her spine, lingering just a beat too long. Not with lust. Not quite. It felt more like… protection. Awareness.
He ended the call without saying goodbye.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"No," Clara said. "But I'm doing it anyway."
He didn't try to stop her. Just picked up his keys and nodded toward the private elevator.
The car ride was silent but not cold. Julian sat beside her, not across, one hand resting casually between them on the leather seat. Clara's fingers brushed his once. Just slightly. He didn't pull away.
She wasn't sure if that made her feel comforted or more exposed.
The publishing house wasn't in one of the skyscrapers Julian was used to. It was tucked inside a renovated brownstone, with ivy climbing up the side and the faint scent of roasted coffee in the air from a shop next door.
Clara took a breath as the driver opened the door.
A young woman in glasses greeted them at the reception desk with a startled smile.
"Ms. Wynter. Mr. Blackwell. Right this way. Isla's waiting."
Julian stayed behind as Clara followed the assistant to a cozy corner office with high windows and a mess of sticky notes scattered across every visible surface.
Isla McRae stood up from her chair, a petite woman with curly red hair and eyes that twinkled with too much intelligence to ever be underestimated.
"I don't usually get husbands in the lobby," she said wryly.
Clara offered a nervous laugh. "He came to be intimidating."
"Ah. Well, he failed. I've handled five agents, three lawyers, and one Oscar-winning diva this week alone. He's practically polite by comparison."
That helped. Just a little.
Isla gestured to the chair across from her desk.
"Clara, your story is good. Actually, it's beautiful. Not just the writing, but the heart. But I need to know. Why now? Why this moment?"
Clara folded her hands in her lap.
"Because someone else is trying to tell it for me."
She explained, briefly, about Vanessa's visit. About the tabloids circling like vultures. About what it meant to her to have some control. Not the full story. Not the pregnancy. Not Julian. Just enough.
Isla listened without interrupting. When Clara finished, she nodded.
"Then let's start small. A column. Your voice, your style. No mention of Blackwell. No headlines about surprise marriages or sudden wealth. Just your name. Your story."
Clara swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
"Okay."
"Deadline's in a week. You write. I'll handle the rest."
As she stood to leave, Isla added something almost as an afterthought.
"And Clara? You have something most people don't. People want to listen to you. So make them remember it."
Clara stepped outside feeling like her feet had left the ground.
Julian looked up from his phone as she approached. He stood, hands in his pockets.
"How did it go?"
"They want me to write a column," she said. "Just me. Not your wife. Just Clara Wynter."
Julian gave a faint nod.
"Good. That's what you are."
She blinked. "What?"
"You're not just my wife. You're you. And they're finally going to see that."
They didn't touch. Not yet. But something passed between them. A quiet truce. A shared purpose.
Back in the car, Clara turned her phone back on. A new message blinked on the screen.
It was from Harper.
"Someone leaked a photo of you leaving the brownstone. It's trending. You look hot, by the way."
Clara exhaled and showed the screen to Julian.
He didn't flinch.
"Let them talk," he said. "You just gave them something worth talking about."
And for the first time since this strange marriage began, Clara didn't feel like she was shrinking under the spotlight.
She felt like she was stepping into it.