The morning after the interview felt strangely quiet.
Clara woke in silk sheets that no longer felt foreign, surrounded by the faint scent of linen, cedar, and him. Julian's side of the bed was empty, but still warm. Somewhere in the apartment, she heard soft voices and the click of polished shoes on marble.
Her phone buzzed before she could sit up. The screen was lit with Harper's name.
"Please tell me you haven't seen it yet," Harper said before Clara could speak.
Clara rubbed her eyes. "Seen what?"
Harper exhaled. "Vera Vogue's digital issue is out early. The interview is fine. Stunning, actually. You look like the new Jackie O. But… check page three."
Clara sat up straighter, anxiety crawling over her skin.
She opened the app and scrolled past the glossy images of herself in simple cashmere, her hand resting unconsciously over her stomach, a soft smile in her eyes. Then she saw it.
A blurred photo. Her. Julian. Outside the clinic last week.
The headline screamed in bold:
Blackwell's Wife or Mistress? Pregnancy Timeline Raises Eyebrows
She stared at the words, the coffee growing cold in her hand.
"They're speculating," Harper muttered. "About the dates. About the baby. It's cruel and low and all too familiar. I'm so sorry."
The article continued beneath the photo, citing anonymous sources and unverified timelines. It implied she had trapped Julian. That he had married her under duress. That the heir she carried was his first scandal.
The blood rushed to Clara's face, then drained just as fast.
She closed the app.
"Does Julian know?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course he does," Harper said. "And if I know your husband, the editor-in-chief of The Gazette will be regretting his life choices before noon."
Clara ended the call just as Julian entered the bedroom.
His jacket was off. His tie loose. There was a quiet storm brewing in his eyes.
"You saw it," he said.
She nodded once.
Julian crossed the room to her. He didn't speak right away. Instead, he crouched in front of her, one hand curling gently over her knee.
"I have legal already drafting a statement," he said. "A full audit of the publishing trail is underway. I've contacted your mother's doctor to ensure no press attempts to reach her."
Clara touched his wrist. "They're not wrong, Julian."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"The timelines. The one-night stand. The pregnancy. It looks bad because it was messy. Because we didn't fall in love the right way. Because I didn't play the part they wanted."
Julian stood slowly.
"They don't get to decide what's right."
"But they're shaping the narrative."
Julian's voice lowered. "Then we rewrite it."
That afternoon, he took her to the Blackwell Foundation Gala.
It was not on the calendar. She hadn't prepared. But as she stepped from the car in a borrowed gown and heels a shade too tight, she realized what he was doing.
He was showing her off. Not as a trophy. Not as an apology. But as his choice.
The ballroom was silver and gold, filled with New York's elite. Cameras flashed as they entered, and Clara kept her shoulders back, her chin level. Julian's hand rested lightly at her lower back.
People whispered. Faces turned. But no one dared approach them directly.
Until Vivienne did.
She wore crimson silk and diamonds that sparkled like malice.
"Clara," she said smoothly. "Lovely of you to come. Braving the headlines must be exhausting."
Clara smiled with the politeness of a blade. "I could say the same about hiding in gossip columns."
Vivienne's eyes flashed, but she tilted her head. "Still. Brave. Most women would crawl into hiding."
Julian stepped forward then, voice cool and sharp. "Vivienne. That's enough."
But Clara touched his arm. "Let her talk."
Vivienne's lips curved.
"You'll learn soon enough, darling. Being Mrs. Blackwell comes with a crown. But make no mistake—it's made of glass. One wrong move, and it all shatters."
Clara didn't flinch.
"Then I guess I'll have to walk carefully," she said, turning toward the ballroom. "Or make them love the sound of breaking."
The champagne sparkled under the chandelier light, but Clara could barely taste it.
After Vivienne's icy warning, she had expected more whispers, more cutting glances from the crowd. Instead, something shifted. Perhaps it was the way Julian stood so close behind her, or the way his name carried weight in every conversation. Or maybe, it was the fact that she no longer flinched.
They would talk. She couldn't control that. But she could control her spine, her smile, her truth.
Julian returned from a brief exchange with a mayoral candidate and handed her a fresh glass.
"You held your own," he said, eyes studying hers.
Clara met his gaze. "She's just a woman playing a game she already lost."
For a second, something flickered across his face. Admiration, maybe. Or relief.
Before he could reply, the lights dimmed slightly and a server clinked a spoon against his glass. It was time for the honorary toast.
Charles Belmont, the former founder of Blackwell Capital and Julian's old mentor, stood at the front with a steady smile. His voice, deep and polished, cut through the low murmurs.
"It is rare to watch a company grow and thrive. It is rarer still to watch a man evolve."
Julian's shoulders stiffened.
Charles continued, "I've known Julian since he was fresh out of Oxford, barely out of his shell. Brilliant but cold. Focused but isolated. Tonight, I do not raise a glass to the firm. I raise a glass to the man. Because something has changed. Or rather, someone."
Gasps fluttered through the room.
Clara's breath caught.
Charles looked straight at her.
"Marriage may be a contract. But love—love is the merger worth fighting for."
The room broke into polite applause. Clara felt her cheeks burn. Julian didn't react. Not immediately.
Later, when they stepped into the limo, Clara turned toward him.
"You hate being called out like that, don't you?"
He adjusted his cufflinks. "I hate surprises."
Clara laughed softly. "You didn't seem surprised. Just… tense."
Julian glanced at her, then back out the window.
"He's right, though. Something has changed," she said, her voice quieter now.
Julian didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, "I used to think control was everything. That if I could manage outcomes, manage people, I could avoid chaos. Pain."
"And now?"
Julian finally looked at her. Really looked.
"Now I don't know how to manage you," he said. "And yet, the chaos doesn't scare me anymore."
Her heart thudded. She turned her eyes away, suddenly too full.
They rode in silence the rest of the way home, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind that spoke in everything unspoken.
When they reached the penthouse, the driver opened the door, but Julian paused before stepping out.
He turned to Clara, his hand hovering near hers.
"If you ever want to leave," he said, "do it for yourself. Not because the world pushes you to."
Clara blinked, stunned.
She didn't answer him with words.
She took his hand.