They left the ballroom through a side corridor, bypassing cameras, whispers, and champagne-fueled laughter. Julian didn't speak, didn't look back, just guided Clara through a set of tinted glass doors that opened into a rooftop lounge.
The city unfolded below them in glittering silence, a vast web of light and illusion. Above, the sky was empty, cloudless, cruel.
Clara stood still.
"Julian," she said softly, "what's going on?"
He didn't answer right away. He stood near the railing, head lowered. The light brushed over the sharp lines of his jaw, the elegant cut of his tux, and the tension stiffening his shoulders.
Finally, he turned to face her.
"I wanted to leave before someone said something I couldn't forgive," he said.
Clara's brows pulled together. "Vivienne?"
He didn't reply. He didn't need to.
"You don't have to protect me from people like her," she added after a moment. "I'm not made of glass."
Julian's gaze lingered on her. "You shouldn't have to fight alone."
That stopped her.
In the two months they'd been under the same roof, she'd grown used to his control. His coolness. The way he monitored everything — from her medical appointments to how much cream she liked in her coffee — without ever saying more than necessary.
But now, there was a crack. Just a glint. A hesitation.
Clara stepped closer. "Then stop standing on the edge like you're not part of this."
His eyes flicked toward her.
"I'm not a responsibility you need to manage," she said. "I'm your…" She stopped herself. The word wife still felt foreign. Paper-thin. " I'm the mother of your child. I'm in this with you."
He exhaled slowly and looked away. "You have no idea what they're capable of, Clara. The press. The board. My family."
"Then tell me," she said. "Talk to me, not around me."
Silence fell between them.
Then, in a voice lower than before, Julian said, "There's a board meeting tomorrow morning. Marcus is pushing a motion to strip me of executive control."
Her breath caught.
"What?" she asked.
He nodded once. "He's been waiting for a moment like this. And tonight gave him the excuse. Unstable CEO, scandalous wife, tabloid whispers. It's all theater to him."
Clara's fingers curled at her sides. "So what do we do?"
Julian's expression flickered. "We?" he echoed, as if the idea surprised him.
"Yes. We," Clara said firmly.
She didn't flinch when he looked at her again; really looked. The mask slipped just a little, and underneath it, she saw exhaustion. Fear. Something that looked too much like loneliness.
Julian crossed the distance between them.
His voice was quiet when he said, "They will come after you now. After us. I can't stop it entirely."
"I don't want perfect," she said. "I just want honesty."
For a moment, the night pressed in.
Then, without warning, he reached out and touched her wrist. Barely. A brush of skin.
"I'm trying," he said, and the words sounded like an apology.
Clara didn't pull away.
Not this time.
The silence between them was no longer cold. It pulsed with something quieter, heavier. The city lights behind them flickered like distant stars, but Clara barely noticed.
Julian's hand lingered near hers. He didn't move closer, but he didn't step back either. It was like he was still deciding if this—whatever they were becoming—was safe to want.
"Julian," she said, her voice steadier now. "Do you even want this marriage? Beyond responsibility, beyond saving your name. Do you want me?"
He blinked, and something flickered in his eyes.
"I don't know how to want things I might lose," he said quietly.
Her heart clenched. She had expected denial, deflection, maybe even silence. But not this. Not the barest edge of truth he didn't seem used to sharing.
"I'm not asking you to want perfectly," Clara said. "Just… honestly."
Julian stared at her for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. A folded paper. He handed it to her.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Tomorrow's agenda. Marcus leaked it to someone in the press. There will be reporters waiting outside Blackwell Capital by morning."
Clara opened the paper. The headline was already forming in her mind. "Blackwell Empire Crumbles from Within."
"This isn't just about the company," Julian said. "It's about legacy. Control. My father built that empire with blood and numbers. I was supposed to expand it. Strengthen it. Not… let it fall apart."
Clara looked up. "You're not your father."
His jaw tightened. "No. I'm weaker."
"No," she said firmly. "You're human."
For a moment, he didn't respond. Then, slowly, he stepped toward her and gently took the paper from her hands. He folded it again with precision, as if neatness could contain the chaos that threatened to spill over.
"I told myself I could keep you safe by keeping you at a distance," he said. "But all that's done is make you feel like a guest in your own life."
Her breath caught.
Julian looked at her, and for once, the cold had vanished from his eyes.
"You're not a guest, Clara," he said. "This is your home. Our child's home."
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He reached out, slowly, as if testing if she would let him. His fingers brushed her cheek. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just a touch, soft and searching.
"I don't know how to love the right way," Julian said. "But I want to try. For you. For the baby."
Clara stepped into his touch. "That's all I ever needed to hear."
Somewhere behind them, the glass doors clicked shut as a breeze swept through the rooftop. The night no longer felt so cold.
In that stillness, Julian leaned in. Not quite a kiss. Just a press of his forehead to hers. A silent vow.
Clara closed her eyes and let it anchor her.
This wasn't the life she had imagined, but maybe it was the one she was meant to build. Brick by fragile brick. Together.
And in the distance, sirens wailed softly through the city, hinting at the storms still to come.