The sound of eggs sizzling in the pan wasn't what Julian expected to wake up to on a Tuesday morning.
He blinked against the soft light filtering through the half-drawn curtains, the linen sheets oddly rumpled beside him. The bed was empty, Clara's warmth already gone. For a man used to silent mornings and untouched kitchens, the smell of garlic and eggs was borderline jarring.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. The taste of last night lingered in his mouth—half of it red wine, the other half words neither of them said out loud.
By the time he stepped out, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, Clara was plating food at the island counter. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun, neck exposed, her posture relaxed but focused. She looked nothing like the woman who had stormed through a PR interview two days ago like a queen with fire in her spine.
"Morning," she said casually, not turning around.
He blinked. "You cooked."
Clara lifted her gaze then, amused. "Astute observation. Go ahead, make your billion-dollar deduction: I also made toast."
Julian moved toward the counter without answering. His eyes lingered on the second plate she had prepared, already set with utensils and a folded napkin. A part of him wondered if she had hesitated before doing it. Wondered if she had made it for him automatically or decided to before changing her mind.
The plate was warm. That was answer enough.
They ate in near silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Clara chewed slowly, pushing bits of tomato around with her fork. Her phone buzzed once, then twice, lighting up the counter with notifications.
He noticed the names: Vera Vogue Online. Fashion Insider. Harper (3 messages).
Julian's jaw tensed slightly. "Are they bothering you?"
Clara glanced up, reading the edge in his voice. "Not exactly. They want follow-ups. Clarifications. One offered a photo shoot."
"You said no?"
She sipped her water. "I haven't said anything yet."
His voice dropped, cool and even. "They're not getting access to you."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "You mean access to your image."
Julian didn't answer. He cut a piece of egg too neatly, the silence between them thickening.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. "I know this thing between us started out as a transaction. But you don't own me, Julian."
"I'm not trying to…"
"Aren't you?" Her voice softened. "I'm not just carrying your child. I'm still Clara. And right now, Clara's trying to remember how to live in her own skin."
His gaze flickered to her stomach, still barely rounded. His throat tightened.
"I don't want to control you," he said after a moment. "I just... don't like the idea of strangers picking you apart in headlines. You deserve better than being a spectacle."
The honesty in his tone caught her off guard. For a man built on ice, he was starting to show cracks.
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Okay."
A quiet beat passed.
He cleared his throat, shifting gears. "There's a Blackwell gala this Friday. It's mostly board members and investors. I want you there."
Clara froze. "You want me there, or you need me there?"
His gaze didn't waver. "Both."
The Blackwell estate's dressing room, once an unused corner of excess, now felt oddly alive. Clara stood before the full-length mirror, twisting slightly as she adjusted the soft silk fabric hugging her frame. The dark navy gown Harper had chosen fell off her shoulders and draped at her waist, accentuating her growing figure without making it obvious.
She pressed a hand to her belly. "You and I are about to enter enemy territory," she whispered under her breath.
Harper, lounging on the velvet chaise with a cup of tea, raised an eyebrow. "Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing nerves. Besides, you're carrying the heir. That makes you queen by default."
Clara laughed despite herself. "That's not how these people think."
"No," Harper replied, setting down her cup, "but it's how you should."
Clara reached for her earrings, long crystal teardrops that sparkled too sharply under the chandelier light. "Julian says he needs me there. Which I think translates to: Marcus Lang is making another move."
Harper stood and adjusted Clara's dress zipper with gentle hands. "He's rattling cages. That's what sharks do when they smell power shifting. The moment Julian publicly aligns you with him, Marcus loses a piece off his chessboard."
"Except Marcus always has another one hidden behind his back," Clara muttered.
"You know what he doesn't have?" Harper grinned. "A pregnant wife in satin and heels who looks like a poetic middle finger."
Clara smirked.
The Blackwell gala glittered beneath a canopy of chandeliers and low orchestral music. The room buzzed with expensive perfume, laughter that didn't reach the eyes, and subtle negotiations disguised as small talk. It was a jungle in gowns and tuxedos, and Clara walked in on Julian's arm like she had always belonged there.
Except she hadn't. And some faces made sure she didn't forget that.
Whispers followed her with every step. Eyes darted to her stomach, then back to her face, searching for signs of scandal. But Clara kept her spine straight, fingers lightly curled into Julian's arm. If she shook, she did it silently.
"Smile," Julian murmured beside her. "They don't deserve to see fear."
She glanced up at him, startled. "Are you reading my mind now?"
"No. Just your breathing."
The words landed like silk.
A champagne flute was placed in her hand. Non-alcoholic. Someone must've remembered. She turned to thank the server and came face-to-face with Vivienne Ashcroft.
"Darling," Vivienne purred, lips too red and eyes too cold, "you look… radiant. I almost didn't recognize you. Pregnancy agrees with you."
Clara smiled sweetly. "So do lawsuits, I hear. Are you still suing Vera Vogue for stealing your campaign idea?"
Vivienne blinked, the smile twitching.
Julian gently but firmly shifted Clara away, a ghost of amusement playing on his lips.
"I warned you," Clara murmured. "I'm wearing war paint."
Julian stopped her by the bar, his hand lingering on the small of her back. "You didn't tell me you were nervous."
"I thought it was obvious."
His fingers brushed hers lightly. "I'll be right beside you."
Before she could respond, a voice interrupted them.
"Well, this is cozy."
They both turned.
Marcus Lang stood with a drink in hand, his expression pleasant, eyes sharp.
Clara's heart dropped slightly. Julian's shoulders tensed, barely visible.
"I see congratulations are in order," Marcus said, gaze flicking down to Clara's abdomen. "A new heir. I'm sure the board will be delighted."
Julian's voice was quiet, cold. "That's none of your concern."
"Isn't it?" Marcus smiled. "Succession always is."
He walked off before either could respond.
Clara turned to Julian. "What does he mean?"
Julian didn't answer immediately. His jaw was locked.
"Julian?"
"We need to talk. But not here."
Her stomach knotted. "You're scaring me."
His hand found hers under the bar counter, squeezing it once.
"I won't let anything touch you. Not him. Not anyone."
But in his eyes, something had shifted. Not panic — calculation.
The kind a man makes when he knows the storm is closer than he thought.