Clara stood in front of the mirror, her reflection half-blurred by the steam curling off her untouched tea. Her fingers absently grazed the edge of the bathroom counter. She had gotten used to the luxury now—the marble floors, the soft towels folded like origami, the warm lighting—but it still never felt like hers.
Behind her, the rain whispered against the windowpane, rhythmic and hushed, as if the world outside was trying to offer comfort.
Julian was still asleep, or at least pretending to be. They had barely spoken since the gala. Not out of anger—but something worse. Silence threaded with uncertainty. Guilt. Restraint.
Her phone buzzed again. A soft pulse against the counter.
Another message from Harper.
Harper:Check Vera Vogue's front page. Call me now.
Clara's heart dropped. She clicked open the link and stared.
There it was. A photo from the gala, cropped just enough to seem like a scandal. Julian gripping her arm in the hallway, his expression unreadable. She looked flustered. The caption read: Power Couple or PR Move? The Blackwell Marriage Unraveled?
Clara dropped the phone. Her tea sloshed onto the sink.
She rushed to the bedroom, where Julian lay with one arm over his forehead. He opened his eyes the moment she entered. Like he had not slept at all.
"Did you see it?" she asked quietly.
His jaw tightened. "I did."
"How bad is it?"
"They're trying to twist something routine into something damaging," he said. "We knew they would."
"But why now? Why that photo?" Clara's voice cracked. "It looks like you were angry. Like I was upset."
Julian sat up slowly, his expression unreadable. "Because someone wants to exploit it. Marcus. Or Vivienne. Or someone we have not yet accounted for."
Clara crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "Then what do we do? Let the world decide who I am? Let them say this was a contract marriage after all?"
Julian stood, walking toward her until there was barely space between them. "You are not going to be defined by that headline."
"But that is all they see. That is all they want to see," Clara said. "They do not know what we are going through. They only care if I look like the woman who tamed the CEO, or the woman who tricked him."
He exhaled sharply. "Let me handle it."
"You said that before," she whispered, "but I am the one in the photo."
She left before he could answer. The truth was—she was tired of being handled.
The wind howled outside as Clara stepped onto the balcony, the cityscape blurred by a curtain of rain. She tucked the phone between her shoulder and cheek while wrapping Julian's cardigan tighter around herself. It still smelled like him—fresh linen, faint cedarwood, something careful and unspoken.
"Clara?" Harper's voice came through, sharp and breathless. "You saw it, right?"
"I saw it."
"Vera Vogue's editor is on someone's payroll. I do not have proof, but this was a setup. That photo was taken by someone backstage—someone with access."
Clara closed her eyes. "You think it's Vivienne?"
"Vivienne's good at acting scandalous, but she is not subtle. My money's on Marcus. Or Vincent. They both have motive and connections."
Clara leaned against the glass railing. "Julian says he'll handle it."
Harper scoffed. "Of course he will. He always does. But that's the problem, isn't it? He handles everything. You're the one dragged through the mud, and he thinks control is the same as protection."
"I know," Clara said quietly. "But right now, I can't even think straight."
There was a pause on the line. Harper's voice softened. "You okay?"
"No." Clara looked up at the gray sky. "I'm not."
"Then come stay with me for the weekend. Clear your head. I'll cook something edible. We'll watch bad movies and scream into pillows. Deal?"
Clara smiled faintly. "Tempting."
"Good. I'll send Damien to pick you up if I have to."
Clara hung up with a promise to think about it, then slipped back inside just as her phone lit up again.
A message from Miranda Quinn, editor-in-chief of Vera Vogue.
I thought you should see this before it goes live tomorrow. Consider it a courtesy.
There was a PDF attachment.
Clara clicked it open.
"The Blackwell Illusion: Secrets Behind the Marriage Everyone's Watching"
A draft exposé. Long. Brutal. Speculative.
Her past relationship with Caleb. Her father's abandonment. Even her old blog posts—twisted into proof that she had always dreamed of marrying rich.
Her stomach turned.
Julian's voice came from the bedroom doorway. "You need to see something."
She turned the screen toward him instead. "No. You do."
Julian stared at the article, each line drawing his jaw tighter. The color drained from his face as he scrolled to the part where Clara's private school records were quoted. Her mother's illness. Her early scholarship rejections. Even a photo of the old apartment she used to live in.
"This... this is targeted," he said finally, voice low. "This isn't just gossip. Someone fed them this."
Clara sat at the edge of the bed, her hands trembling. "They make it look like I've been chasing you since day one. Like I planned everything."
"You didn't," Julian said immediately. "I know you didn't."
"That doesn't matter," Clara whispered. "To them, I'm just another story they can twist."
Julian stepped away, pacing the length of the room, his fingers rubbing at his temple. The pressure he usually buried was bleeding to the surface now. He hated losing control—and this time, the attack wasn't just on his name. It was on her.
His phone buzzed.
A private number.
He answered without thinking.
A distorted voice filtered through.
"Check your company's internal servers. There's a leak. And it's closer than you think."
Julian's eyes darkened. "Who is this?"
But the line cut out.
Clara looked up. "Who was that?"
Julian didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved toward the desk, unlocking his tablet and pulling up the company's internal activity logs.
"I need to check something," he muttered, already typing.
Clara stood slowly. "Julian, what's going on?"
He turned to her, face unreadable.
"There's someone inside Blackwell Capital feeding information to the press. They didn't just stumble onto your past. They were handed it."
A pause stretched between them.
"You mean someone close to you," Clara said, her voice growing quiet.
Julian nodded once. "And I'm going to find out who."
Just then, his email dinged.
A single forwarded message.
Subject: Re: Clara Wynter's background – per request
From: An internal IP address. No name. No signature.
Julian clicked on it.
The attachment loaded.
It was a file labeled "WynterProfile_FINAL.pdf".
And above it, one chilling line:
"For Marcus' review only."