Clara woke in Harper's guest room to the smell of cinnamon rolls and faint shouting from the living room.
She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling. The pale curtains fluttered. A slant of morning sun warmed the edge of the bed. The sheets were soft, the silence was temporary.
"Tell them she's not giving a damn interview!" Harper's voice was sharp. A pause followed. Then came muffled cursing. "No. I don't care what Vivian Ashcroft leaked. We're not answering questions about ovulation schedules, thanks."
Clara sat up slowly. Her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
Nine missed calls. Three from unknown numbers. One from Julian. Five from Ethan Kim. And a text from Harper that just said, Don't check social media. Seriously.
She checked social media.
The first headline hit like a slap.
Julian Blackwell's Surprise Bride — Pregnancy Scandal or PR Stunt?
Below it, a photo of her and Julian at the gala. Her face turned awkwardly mid-sentence. Julian, caught glancing at her. The angle made it look like a moment of genuine affection. Or maybe too genuine.
She scrolled. The comments were worse.
"Who is this woman even?"
"Clearly pregnant before the wedding. Do the math."
"Gold-digger 101. Where's the NDA?"
"Honestly, she's kind of cute though."
"Plot twist. He's in love and doesn't know it."
Clara tossed the phone face down and curled up on the edge of the bed. She wasn't sure whether to scream or laugh. Maybe both.
The door creaked open.
"You saw it," Harper said, entering with a mug of coffee. "I told you not to."
"I know," Clara murmured. "But the internet has a magnetic pull. Like watching a house burn down."
Harper handed her the mug and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Julian's team is trying to get the articles pulled. But someone's feeding information. Not just rumors. Real stuff. Like where you went to school. Your freelance history. Even your mother's hospital records."
Clara's blood ran cold. "That's not public."
"Exactly. So unless your old high school enemy suddenly got hired at the Daily Times, we're dealing with someone inside Julian's circle."
Clara held the mug with both hands. The warmth didn't help. "Vivienne?"
"She's the obvious guess," Harper said. "But I wouldn't rule out Marcus. Or someone trying to take Julian down from the inside."
A knock interrupted them.
Clara looked up. Harper raised an eyebrow, then stood and opened the door.
It was Damien Carter.
Clara blinked. He was dressed like he'd just stepped off a runway, not out of a war room. Black coat, navy sweater, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Unbothered expression. Briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other.
"May I come in?" he asked.
Harper blinked. "You brought backup?"
"I brought information." Damien stepped inside. "And a ceasefire."
"Between who?" Clara asked.
"Julian and the board. For now." Damien set the briefcase down. "But they're pressuring him to make a public statement distancing himself from the marriage."
Clara felt the words hit, slow and hard. "What does Julian say?"
Damien looked at her. His eyes softened slightly, though his voice stayed cool. "He said no."
Harper made a surprised noise. Clara didn't move.
Damien continued. "Which means two things. First, you're staying under fire. Second, we need to get ahead of it."
Clara swallowed. "How?"
"Public perception. If we don't control the narrative, someone else will."
"You mean spin it?"
"I mean tell your story first. On your terms." He paused. "Julian wants to know if you'll speak to Vera Vogue."
Clara blinked. "The fashion magazine?"
Damien nodded. "Editor-in-chief is Miranda Quinn. She's cutthroat but fair. If you do a feature, you control what they say. And you remind the world you're not a scandal. You're a woman."
Clara set the mug down.
"Is this what Julian wants?" she asked quietly.
Damien met her eyes. "He wants you protected. But he won't force you."
Harper crossed her arms. "You sure he's not using you as a mouthpiece?"
Damien turned to her. Something unreadable flickered in his expression.
"I'm here because he trusts me with the things he can't say."
Clara stood up.
"I'll do it. The article."
Harper looked at her. "Are you sure?"
Clara nodded. Her heart was pounding. "If they're going to write about me, I want them to hear my voice."
The Vera Vogue offices felt like another planet.
Clara sat on a velvet chair that probably cost more than her entire rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in afternoon light. Stylists and assistants whispered around racks of designer clothing in the background. The air smelled like peonies and perfectly chilled ambition.
Across from her, Miranda Quinn flipped through a portfolio without looking up. Her hair was silver-blonde, sleekly tied. Her nails were painted like tiny lacquered daggers. Every movement she made was precise, rehearsed, effortless.
"You photograph well," she said finally, her voice cool and bright. "But that's not the point of this piece."
Clara clasped her hands in her lap. "What is the point?"
Miranda looked up then, sharp eyes locking onto her like a sniper.
"Perception," she said. "Right now, the world sees you as a mistake that got legalized. A scandal in heels. This interview changes that narrative. Or buries it."
Clara's mouth went dry. She nodded.
Miranda reached for a slim tablet and slid it across the coffee table. Clara saw a headline mock-up:
"The Woman Behind the Billionaire" – Exclusive with Clara Wynter-Blackwell
Her heart fluttered at the name. It looked surreal in bold serif font. Too big. Too public. Too much.
"I'm not here to manipulate you," Miranda said, studying her. "But this feature will set the tone for the next three months. Whatever you say will follow you. And him."
"I know," Clara said softly.
"Good. Then let's begin."
The recorder clicked on.
Miranda's tone turned smooth, professional.
"Clara, tell me about the night you met Julian Blackwell."
Clara hesitated.
How could she explain that it started with heartbreak and cheap wine? That Julian was supposed to be a passing mistake, not her future? That his eyes had been colder than winter, and yet somehow she'd stayed warm in his presence?
"We met by accident," she said. "At a hotel bar. I didn't know who he was. I had just walked out of a terrible date. He offered me a drink, and I said yes. We talked. We argued. We... connected. Then I left without telling him my name."
Miranda raised an eyebrow. "And yet, you're married now."
Clara smiled wryly. "Life has a sense of humor."
"And when did you find out you were pregnant?"
Clara shifted. "Weeks later. Alone. I didn't plan to tell him. I didn't know how. Then fate stepped in again."
Miranda paused. "Do you love him?"
Clara blinked.
"I'm not sure how to answer that," she admitted. "I'm learning who he is every day. He's difficult. Cold. But also… kind, in ways he doesn't show the world."
Miranda was quiet.
"Let me guess. He remembers your coffee order but forgets his own birthday. Buys you noise-canceling headphones when you say your head hurts. Hates flowers but sends them anyway."
Clara looked up, startled. "How did you…"
"Because I married a man like him once." Miranda leaned back. Her voice dropped an octave. "And it ruined me. Until I decided to stop letting the world define who I was in that marriage."
Clara didn't know what to say.
Miranda stood. Her tone returned to business. "We'll do a spread with you in your own clothes. Nothing too polished. Something real. Then we'll publish a two-page piece with light edits. You'll review it first."
"Thank you," Clara said.
Miranda nodded. Then added quietly, "Just remember. People will always assume you don't deserve him. Prove them wrong by not caring what they think."
Outside the office, Damien waited in the car. When Clara slid into the back seat, he looked at her once and said, "You did well."
She didn't reply. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
"Julian's waiting at the townhouse," Damien said. "He canceled three meetings."
Clara blinked. "Why?"
"He said your day was harder than his."
That night, Julian didn't say much. But when she walked into the living room, he stood and crossed to her with a kind of silent urgency.
"Thank you," he said.
She frowned. "For what?"
"For telling your story," he said. "Even when it wasn't easy."
She looked up at him. "They'll still judge me."
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Then let them," he murmured. "But they'll never touch you again. Not while I'm standing."