The first time Clara Wynter saw her face in a tabloid, it was on the corner screen of a deli.
She was just trying to buy yogurt.
But there it was. Her photo—slightly blurry, candid, taken outside the doctor's office two weeks ago. Her hand was over her stomach. The caption was bold enough to scream across the small LED panel: "Blackwell's Secret Wife—And Baby?"
Clara froze, fingers still wrapped around a shopping basket handle.
Two teenage girls nearby were whispering, one of them holding up her phone, clearly zooming in.
She dropped the yogurt and left.
By the time she made it back to the car, her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking. Ethan was waiting in the driver's seat, engine running.
"Do I look that pregnant already?" she muttered, climbing into the back.
"No," Ethan said gently, not looking at her through the mirror. "You look like a woman who deserves privacy."
Clara laughed, brittle. "Too late for that."
They drove in silence until he said, "There's a lot Julian can protect you from. But not curiosity."
"I don't want to be famous."
"Then don't act famous," Ethan replied. "Just be Clara. Same woman who brought my daughter books and made the CEO of Blackwell eat burnt toast with a smile."
She managed a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
When she got home, Harper was waiting on the steps.
"I told you to wear sunglasses," Harper said instead of hello.
Clara stepped past her. "They caught me coming out of the doctor's. I wasn't thinking about press."
"They're everywhere now," Harper said, following her inside. "Twitter. Reddit. TikTok. Someone already posted your ring. People think it's a PR stunt. Or that you trapped him."
Clara stopped mid-step. "Trapped?"
Harper softened. "That's just noise. Internet fodder. People don't know you. They don't know Julian either."
"But they'll pretend they do," Clara said, voice small. "And our baby—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
The fear clawed at her ribs.
Would her child grow up with their life dissected by strangers? Paparazzi outside the school gates? Rumors on playgrounds?
Later that evening, Julian arrived home with a calm expression and a folder tucked under his arm.
He placed it on the coffee table in front of her.
"What's this?"
"Options."
She opened it. Inside were pages of proposed strategies. Public statements. Possible interview scripts. Photos they could release to regain control of the narrative.
"Do I have to say yes?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
"No," he said, crouching in front of her. "But if we say nothing, they'll write the story for us. And you won't like their version."
Clara looked down at the neat font, the sterile professionalism of it all.
And something inside her—something protective and quietly defiant—sparked.
"I'll do the interview," she said.
Julian blinked. "You sure?"
"If I don't speak for myself now," she said, "they'll never let me speak at all."
For the first time since the tabloids hit, she felt something anchor inside her.
She wasn't a secret.
She wasn't a shame.
She was his wife. A mother-to-be. And if the world wanted a spectacle, she'd give them her truth instead.
The interview was scheduled for a Friday morning at ten.
Julian offered to push it back. Clara said no. If she hesitated now, she would lose her nerve.
It was held in one of the lounges at the Blackwell building, a space usually reserved for high-end investor presentations. Glass walls. Sleek furnishings. An understated backdrop of power.
The journalist they agreed on was Elise Monroe, a respected columnist known for writing about women, not tearing them down. No tabloids. No paparazzi.
Still, Clara's heart raced as she sat across from Elise, the camera light blinking red. Her palms were damp beneath the thin silk of her blouse. She'd chosen something simple. Not designer. Just her.
"Ready?" Elise asked, voice calm and even.
Clara nodded, barely trusting herself to speak.
Elise began with soft questions. How did you and Julian meet? What do you love about New York? What was your childhood like?
Clara answered carefully. Honestly. She mentioned her mother, her editing work, her belief that kindness is not weakness. She did not mention the night of the gala. She did not mention the test with the two pink lines.
Then Elise's expression shifted.
"One question off-script," she said, with a small smile. "May I?"
Julian tensed behind the camera crew, but Clara nodded.
Elise leaned forward.
"What was the moment you realized Julian Blackwell loved you?"
Clara's breath caught.
Not if. When.
Her eyes flicked to Julian, who was watching her with unreadable calm. But she saw it now—the way his jaw clenched slightly, the way his hands were folded but not relaxed.
She looked back at Elise.
"There wasn't one moment," she said softly. "It was a series of quiet ones."
She let the silence hang for a beat, then added:
"The way he memorized my mother's medication schedule. The way he never asked why I cried the first time I heard him play the piano, just let me cry. The way he stood outside the bathroom at four a.m. when I had morning sickness, pretending he was checking emails."
The camera light blinked steadily.
"I realized it when I felt safe. And that kind of safety doesn't come from money or protection. It comes from someone choosing you. Over and over. Even when it's hard."
A pause.
Even Elise looked a little misty-eyed.
"Do you love him?" she asked.
Clara blinked.
"Yes," she said, her voice clear now. "But more importantly, I respect him. And I think love without respect is just possession."
The camera clicked off a few minutes later.
Julian walked over slowly, eyes unreadable.
"You didn't have to say all that," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied. "But I wanted to."
Later that evening, the interview aired online in full.
No flashy edits. No sensational headlines.
Just Clara. Her voice steady. Her eyes clear.
Within hours, the public sentiment shifted. The comments changed from suspicion to admiration. From gossip to support.
Julian watched it all from his study, one hand resting against his chin, the other on his phone.
He didn't post anything.
But he saved the video.
Watched it twice.
And when Clara came in to tell him dinner was ready, he stood, walked over, and pulled her close.
No words.
Just a long, quiet embrace.
As if to say, without a single syllable: Thank you for choosing me. Even when I didn't know how to choose you back.