The rain had not stopped since the gala.
It whispered against the Blackwell estate's tall windows like a restless secret. Clara stood in the conservatory, arms folded across her chest, watching rivulets of water trace patterns down the glass. The orchids around her glistened with dew, silent witnesses to a storm she could not name.
She had not seen Julian all morning.
He had returned late from a boardroom call, his jaw tight, tie loosened, eyes unreadable. When she had reached for him—just lightly, just enough to ask if he was alright—he had brushed a kiss against her forehead and told her to sleep. The softness of the gesture had only deepened the hollowness in her chest.
Now, with the house quiet except for the rain and the occasional shuffle of Mrs. Delacroix, Clara felt more alone than she had since moving in.
She had tried to forget Vivienne's voice at the gala. Tried not to picture Julian's clenched hands behind his back as he listened to the insinuations, or the flicker of something else behind his eyes when he had watched her walk away with Harper.
He had not defended her. Not in words.
But he had not denied her either.
"Clara?"
The voice startled her. Harper stepped into the conservatory, holding two cups of steaming coffee.
"You disappeared after breakfast. Thought you might've been swallowed by one of these ridiculously expensive plants."
Clara managed a faint smile. "They are quite aggressive."
Harper held out a cup. "Decaf. I know you're not sleeping well."
Clara accepted it with a grateful nod, then turned back toward the rain. "Do you think I made a mistake?"
"In marrying Julian or in not throwing that champagne directly into Vivienne's hair?"
Clara laughed softly, but it did not reach her eyes. "In staying."
Harper leaned against the frame of the doorway, one foot tucked behind the other. "You didn't stay for Julian. Not entirely. You stayed for the baby. For yourself. Don't forget that."
Clara stared into the swirling coffee. "I feel like I'm constantly walking a line. Between who I was before him and who I'm supposed to be now. Everyone is watching. Every step I take feels too loud."
"You're in the lion's den," Harper said, softer now. "But don't forget. You've got sharp teeth too."
Clara looked over at her. "That's poetic."
"I'm a publicist. I live for dramatic metaphors."
A silence fell between them, not uncomfortable but thoughtful. Outside, thunder growled low in the distance.
Then Harper's tone shifted. "There's something else."
Clara stiffened. "What is it?"
Harper hesitated, clearly weighing her words. "A contact of mine—someone who used to work in Blackwell PR—said there's talk. A rumor that Marcus Lang is planning a vote of no confidence. They're gunning for Julian's seat."
Clara's pulse jumped. "Is it because of me?"
"No," Harper said firmly. "It's about power. But they'll use you if they can. That's how these games work. If Julian looks weak or distracted, they'll strike."
Clara's hands tightened around the mug. "What can I do?"
"Stay visible. Stay unshakeable. Make them believe you belong here more than any of them. That scares people like Marcus more than anything."
A soft knock interrupted them. Mrs. Delacroix peeked in, her expression unreadable.
"Mr. Blackwell is in the study. He asked for you."
Clara rose slowly, heart thudding.
She had no idea what she would say.
But maybe it was time to stop waiting for Julian to choose openness.
Maybe it was time she started asking for it.
The study door was half-open when Clara approached. She paused outside, brushing her hands against her hips, more to steady herself than smooth the fabric of her dress. The low hum of Julian's voice filtered through the crack. He was on a call, but his tone held an edge she hadn't heard in days.
She knocked lightly.
The voice stopped. After a second, his answer came.
"Come in."
He stood near the desk, phone in hand, sleeves rolled up, collar undone. His tie had been discarded somewhere, and the veins in his forearms stood out with tension. He ended the call with a clipped thank you and turned to face her.
There was silence.
She had imagined this moment for hours. Practiced it in her mind. But now that they were face to face, the words tangled up behind her ribs.
Julian was the first to speak.
"I'm sorry about last night."
Clara blinked. She had expected silence. Defensiveness. Not this.
He stepped closer. "I should have said something. I should have shut Vivienne down the moment she opened her mouth."
Clara swallowed hard. "Why didn't you?"
Julian hesitated. That small pause, that flicker of vulnerability in his otherwise unreadable face, felt more honest than any apology.
"I have spent years learning how to keep control," he said. "I don't always know how to fight without breaking something."
She stared at him. "Then learn. Because you didn't break her, Julian. You broke me."
That landed with the weight of a confession. His jaw clenched. His gaze did not waver.
"I know."
Clara stepped forward. "Do you?"
Her voice trembled, but she did not step back. "I was humiliated last night. Not by Vivienne, but by you. Because you let her say those things, and you said nothing. You left me to fight alone."
Julian reached for her hand. "That wasn't my intention."
"I know it wasn't. But that doesn't change what it felt like."
His grip was warm. Steady. "Then tell me what to do."
She almost broke at that. Because for all his power and wealth, Julian looked lost in that moment. Like a man who wanted to understand but had never been taught how.
"Let me in," she said. "Stop trying to handle everything on your own. This isn't just your company, your family, your problem. I am your wife. Let me be your partner."
He pulled her into an embrace. Not fiercely. Not like a desperate grab. Just a quiet, aching motion that said I hear you.
They stood like that for a while.
Eventually, he spoke again. "There's a board meeting in three days. Marcus is pushing for a review of my leadership. He's rallying votes."
Clara stiffened. "Is it because of… us?"
"Partly. They think I've gone soft."
She looked up. "And have you?"
Julian's smile was tired. "Maybe. But if softness means protecting what matters, then I do not care."
She laid her head against his chest. "Then let me stand beside you. Not behind you."
There was a pause, then he nodded.
"I want you in the room."
Clara lifted her gaze. "The boardroom?"
"They want to question my decisions. Let them see the best one I have ever made."
A breath caught in her throat.
"Alright," she said softly. "But I'm wearing red."
He let out a laugh, and for the first time in days, it sounded real.