It had been two days since the article.
Two days of whispered calls behind closed doors.
Two days of headlines cycling through tabloids and business sites.
Two days of silence between them—not because they had nothing to say, but because the words were building too slowly to catch up with the weight they carried.
Clara stood barefoot in the kitchen, watching the sky shift through the glass panels beyond the balcony. The clouds hung low, painted in thick brushstrokes of grey and blue. A storm was coming. She could feel it.
The city below still buzzed with noise, but up here, the world felt paused.
Julian hadn't left for work that morning. He hadn't taken a single meeting in person since the article dropped. Not because he couldn't. But because, for once, he didn't want to leave her alone in the eye of the storm.
Clara could hear the soft murmur of his voice from down the hallway. Probably in another call. Maybe about damage control, maybe not. She no longer tried to guess what each conversation was about.
What mattered more was that he hadn't disappeared.
She stirred her tea slowly, the ceramic clinking against the spoon. Her fingers were cold. Everything lately felt a little too cold.
When she turned around, Julian was already watching her.
He was standing at the threshold of the room, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled back, as if caught mid-thought and chose to walk to her instead. His eyes scanned her face for something she couldn't name.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
"I could say the same about you," she replied.
Julian crossed the room quietly and poured himself a cup of coffee. The domesticity of it struck her harder than any of the news articles. There he was, the man the world called ruthless and heartless, standing barefoot in their kitchen, offering no defense and asking no questions.
He leaned against the counter, coffee in hand. He looked at her. Not with his usual clinical detachment. But as if memorizing how she stood in the morning light. How the hem of her robe curved around her calves. How her silence wasn't a wall but a question waiting to be answered.
Clara spoke first.
"Are you going to make a statement?"
Julian took a sip before answering.
"Yes. But not the kind they expect."
She arched an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not going to apologize for marrying you. And I'm not going to pretend it was a mistake."
That stunned her.
She blinked, almost forgetting how to hold the mug in her hand. It wasn't that she had expected him to denounce her. But hearing the words laid bare like that still unraveled something tight inside her chest.
"You really don't care what they say?"
"I care what you say."
The room fell quiet again, but this time it felt warmer.
She looked down into her tea and murmured, "I'm scared. Not of being seen, but of being misunderstood. People already think I'm here for the money or the name. They don't know me."
Julian's voice was low. Steady.
"Then let them learn."
She looked up, surprised.
"I'll hold the door open. You decide how far in they get to see."
The kettle clicked behind them. The room was filled with the faint hum of the city and the storm pressing against the glass.
And then Julian walked toward her, slowly, as if afraid she might step back.
He didn't reach for her hand.
He reached for the mug.
And when his fingers brushed hers, he simply said, "Let me warm this up for you."
No grand gestures.
No contracts.
Just a small moment, quietly shared.
And for now, that was enough.
The afternoon light slipped across the hardwood floors like honey, soft and slow. Rain tapped lightly on the balcony doors but never broke into a full storm. Clara spent most of the morning organizing the shelves in the study. Not because they needed organizing, but because her hands needed something to do.
Julian didn't interrupt.
He watched her from the doorway for a while, then left her alone. Not out of disinterest, but out of some newfound awareness. He was learning, slowly, when to step in and when to give her space.
By midday, she heard faint jazz music drifting from the speakers in the living room. Something soft and old-fashioned, the kind her mother used to hum while grading papers.
She found Julian in the kitchen again, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed in concentration as he stood over the stove.
Clara leaned against the archway. "You cook now?"
He glanced at her. "I can follow instructions. Most of the time."
The sight was surreal. The man whose idea of a balanced meal was a five-course catered dinner was now awkwardly flipping something in a pan that might have been an omelet.
She stepped forward. "Need help?"
Julian hesitated, then handed her the spatula. "Probably."
Their hands brushed. The contact was brief, but charged.
She took over, instinct guiding her. He stepped back and leaned on the counter, arms folded, watching her with a quiet softness she had rarely seen.
"You used to cook for yourself?" he asked.
Clara nodded without turning around. "Before things got hectic. Before my mom got sick."
Julian's voice lowered. "And after that?"
"I didn't have time. I was working, running between hospitals, trying to keep the lights on. Food stopped being a ritual. It became survival."
There was a pause. Then his voice came again, quieter this time.
"I never had that. I mean, meals were prepared. Served. Cleared. Everything felt... rehearsed."
She plated the eggs and turned to him. "You don't have many memories of your mom in the kitchen?"
Julian looked away. "None that mattered."
They sat down at the small round table in the breakfast nook. No aides. No assistants. No hovering expectations.
Just the two of them and the clink of forks against ceramic.
Clara watched as Julian took a cautious bite. Then another. He didn't speak until he was halfway through.
"This is better than anything I've ordered in the past year."
She laughed. "You're not just saying that to get back on my good side, are you?"
"I don't say things I don't mean," he replied, pausing. "Especially not with you."
That silenced her.
Not because she didn't believe him, but because she wanted to.
The vulnerability in his tone unnerved her more than his usual coldness. She had braced herself against the sharp edges of Julian Blackwell. She hadn't prepared for this version—one who sat at her side, shared a meal he tried to cook himself, and gave her the kind of attention that felt too tender to be strategic.
They didn't speak much after that.
Instead, they spent the rest of the afternoon in companionable silence. She curled up on the couch with a book. He worked on his laptop beside her, the sound of keys clicking softly through the room.
Every now and then, he would glance up, as if checking she was still there.
And she was.
Still unsure. Still guarded. But there.
Evening came with the scent of rain and a dimmed skyline. Clara stood by the window, arms crossed, as the city lights blinked to life like distant stars.
Julian approached behind her, pausing at a respectful distance.
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.
Clara turned. "Regret what?"
"This marriage. All of it."
She held his gaze for a long moment before answering.
"I regret the way it started," she said. "But I don't regret where I am."
Julian exhaled slowly.
She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. Her voice lowered to a whisper.
"Do you?"
"No," he said. "Not even a little."
They didn't kiss. They didn't fall into each other's arms. But they stood there, close, hearts uncertain but not turning away.
And for two people who had spent so long surviving separately, that was its own kind of intimacy.