The kettle whistled in the background, but Clara didn't move.
She was sitting at the kitchen counter in one of Julian's oversized button-down shirts, the sleeves rolled up clumsily past her elbows, a forgotten mug of tea cooling by her elbow. Her laptop sat open, but the manuscript on screen was long abandoned. Instead, her eyes were fixed on her phone.
It buzzed again. Then again.
She hesitated before unlocking it.
Harper: Check Vera Vogue.
Harper: Now.
Harper: Please tell me you're not seeing this for the first time.
Harper: Clara??
Her stomach turned.
She opened her browser and typed in the headline Harper had screenshotted without clicking the link.
BREAKING: Julian Blackwell's Secret Marriage And the Woman Who Came from Nowhere
By Miranda Quinn, Vera Vogue
Clara's breath caught.
There, at the top of the screen, was a full-color image of her mid-laugh, hand resting on Julian's arm at the Metron Gala. A photographer must've caught the moment without her noticing. In the image, Julian was looking at her with something that, if you didn't know better, might have passed for tenderness.
But the article underneath had no softness at all.
"Clara Wynter is not a name most people recognize. A freelance book editor with no known society connections, she's suddenly at the center of New York's most whispered-about marriage. Sources confirm the wedding took place in private several weeks ago, mere days after she reportedly left a publishing internship."
Clara read faster, skimming words that blurred at the edges.
"No wedding photos have surfaced. No registry. No official announcement from the Blackwell family. Just one shocking revelation: Julian Blackwell, heir to the Blackwell Capital empire, is officially off the market. Married to a woman who, by all appearances, has everything to gain."
Her face burned.
They made her sound like some grifter. A nobody who clawed her way into a billionaire's life and sealed the deal with a pregnancy.
The article danced around it, never saying the word. But the insinuation was clear.
She felt sick.
Then she scrolled down further and froze.
A quote, bolded in the center of the article.
"She's not exactly who Julian's mother envisioned for the Blackwell name," says a source close to the family.
Evelyn. It had to be. Or someone in her circle.
Clara swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how quiet the penthouse was. The silence made her feel exposed, like her name had been etched across the skyline while she sat here, invisible and alone.
She locked her phone and pushed the laptop closed.
She wasn't crying. Not yet.
But something inside her,something tender and tired, curled up tight like a fist.
She had told herself she could handle this. That she wouldn't regret marrying Julian, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. But she hadn't prepared for this.
Being dissected. Judged. Named and unnamed all at once.
It felt like walking onto a battlefield without armor.
The kettle had stopped whistling. The room was filled with the faint click of pipes cooling and the faraway hum of the city below.
She sat there, breathing slowly, back straight, staring at nothing.
Then she stood and went to get dressed.
If the world was going to look at her today, she wasn't going to let it see her break.
Clara had barely finished tying the sash on her robe when the front door opened.
Julian's voice echoed from the hallway.
"Clara?"
She didn't answer right away. She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down her hair, fingers trembling slightly. No amount of brushing could quiet the restless storm in her chest. She caught a glimpse of her own face,calm on the outside, but the eyes gave her away.
When Julian finally walked into the room, he looked exactly how she remembered him yesterday. Polished. Sharp. Unbothered. He removed his coat with the same precision he always did, folded it over one arm, and met her gaze without blinking.
"I read the article," she said before he could speak.
He nodded once. "I assumed you would."
She gestured toward her phone on the table. "Miranda Quinn called me a social climber with a uterus. And that's just the polite part."
Julian moved to her side, not touching her, just close enough that she felt the weight of his presence. "It was planted."
Her jaw tightened. "I know. Evelyn, or Vivienne. Maybe both."
"I'm handling it."
That answer made her snap. "You're handling it? What does that mean, Julian? That you'll send someone to buy the silence? Spin a counter narrative with your PR team while I sit here waiting for my name to stop trending for all the wrong reasons?"
He didn't flinch. He just looked at her with that frustrating, unreadable face.
"Clara," he said softly. "You are not alone in this."
"But I feel alone," she whispered. "I've felt alone every minute since I saw my face on that page."
Silence stretched between them like glass—clear and sharp.
Then he stepped closer. "I made a mistake."
That startled her. "What?"
"I should have announced the marriage myself. Publicly. With you at my side."
Clara blinked. "You mean you would've...?"
"Yes. And I still will."
She hesitated. "Why now?"
Julian's gaze dropped for the first time. His fingers grazed the edge of the counter. When he looked up again, something had shifted. The steel in him remained, but it was laced with something quieter. Something sincere.
"Because I watched a woman walk into my life and upend it completely. Because she didn't ask for this. Because the moment her name was dragged into the light, mine should have been right beside it."
Clara's breath hitched. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to scream at him too.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. Not the proposal kind. Smaller. A ring she hadn't seen before—a delicate band with a subtle row of diamonds, tasteful and timeless.
"I had this made before the article," he said. "It isn't about the press. It's because you're wearing a temporary ring that doesn't fit, and that bothered me."
She stared at it.
"You really don't like half-measures, do you?"
"No," he said. "Especially not with you."
He didn't put it on her. He just held it out, letting her choose.
Clara took the box slowly and snapped it shut. She didn't put it on either.
"Tell me this isn't pity."
"It's not."
"Then prove it," she whispered. "Stand next to me in the storm. Not above it."
Julian nodded once. "Then we start now."
A few minutes later, the two of them stood at the window overlooking Manhattan. His hand brushed hers, and this time, she didn't move away.
Outside, the city roared with gossip. But inside the glass, for the first time, they were quietly aligned.