The morning sun barely crept through the penthouse windows when Clara opened her eyes. She hadn't slept much. Her mind was still reeling from the message that ended last night, the one that buzzed like a warning bell in her chest.
She sat upright, slowly, careful not to stir Julian. He had finally fallen asleep hours after she returned. He had said nothing when she came back, only wrapped an arm around her waist from behind as if anchoring her to the bed, to him, to something that was fraying.
Now, in the soft hush of dawn, she slipped out from under his touch.
The floor felt cold beneath her feet, but her heart was colder. Her fingers brushed across the phone screen on the nightstand. The message was still there.
"She deserves the truth. All of it. Before someone else tells her."
Who sent it? And what truth? Her chest tightened with unease.
She padded quietly out of the bedroom, down the polished hallway of the penthouse, and into the kitchen. The coffee machine blinked at her like an old friend. She made herself a cup and sat by the window, pulling her knees up, watching the city slowly come alive beneath her.
Then came the alert.
Her phone buzzed again, this time louder, sharper, insistent.
Clara blinked and opened it.
Trending:Julian Blackwell's Secret Marriage? Photos Inside.
Her stomach dropped.
She tapped the link. A paparazzi photo. Blurry, grainy but unmistakable.
It was her. At the Blackwell Foundation gala. Julian's arm looped around her waist. The glow on her cheeks. The tiny bump of her pregnancy just barely visible under her fitted dress.
The article had already racked up thousands of views. Comments flooded in. Speculation, judgment, outrage, curiosity. The press had finally caught scent of the truth they had tried to shield.
Her hand trembled.
Behind her, a voice stirred.
"You saw it," Julian said.
Clara turned to see him in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, eyes bloodshot.
She nodded.
Julian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I was going to tell you before it hit. Vincent moved faster than I expected. He leaked it."
Her lips parted. "Vincent? Why?"
Julian crossed the room. "Because he wants to corner me in tomorrow's board meeting. A scandal weakens my credibility. He wants control of the Europe deal."
"So I'm a liability?" Her voice was quiet.
"No," he said immediately. "You are everything they hate because they cannot control you."
Clara looked back down at the article. "This isn't just about business anymore. My face is everywhere. Our baby's name could be next."
Julian lowered his voice. "Let me fix this."
She stood, her voice firmer than before. "No. I'll fix it. My way."
He frowned. "Clara…"
She met his gaze, unflinching.
"If they want a spectacle, I'll give them something real. Not shame. Not silence. I'm done hiding."
Julian stared at Clara, stunned by the fire in her voice. It was not anger for the sake of being angry. It was the steel of a woman who had reached her limit. Who had spent too long playing nice in someone else's world.
He stepped forward. "What do you mean, your way?"
Clara placed the phone down on the counter and folded her arms. "I mean I'm going to speak. Not hide behind your lawyers or your silence."
"Speak where?" he asked, brows drawing together.
"Harper knows someone at the Post. Not one of those gossip rags. A real journalist. I want to tell them my story. On my terms."
Julian's jaw tightened. "Clara, they will twist your words. No matter how honest you are, it will never come out the way you want."
She stepped closer, voice steady. "Then let them try. I will not sit in this penthouse and wait to be destroyed piece by piece by strangers who know nothing about me. About us."
Julian exhaled hard. "This is bigger than just us."
"I know," she replied. "Which is why I'm not asking."
Silence fell.
For a long time, he said nothing. Then he nodded once. A small, reluctant gesture. "Then I'll arrange security. If you step into the light, I want eyes on you everywhere."
Clara didn't thank him. She didn't need to. His offer wasn't about control anymore. It was about protection. Maybe even trust.
As she turned away, her phone rang. Harper.
Clara picked it up. "Harper? You saw it?"
"Clara, your face is on three digital billboards already," Harper replied breathlessly. "And someone just asked if you're pregnant with Julian Blackwell's heir. I nearly spat out my coffee."
Clara groaned. "I need your help."
Harper's voice turned serious. "Anything."
"I want to tell my story. Properly. No spin. Do you still know that reporter at the Post?"
Harper hesitated. "You mean Simone? Yeah, she owes me a favor. I can set it up. But are you sure? Once it's out, there's no going back."
Clara's fingers tightened around the phone. She looked over at Julian, who stood with his back to her now, staring out the window, the weight of the world draped over his shoulders.
"I'm sure."
"Alright," Harper said. "Then let's make them listen."
After the call ended, Clara began drafting notes. Her hands moved quickly, but her thoughts were tangled. There were so many pieces to consider — her mother, her past, the truth about her pregnancy, how she and Julian even met.
A quiet knock on the kitchen doorway interrupted her.
It was Julian.
He held something in his hand. A folded envelope.
"I thought you should see this," he said.
Clara accepted it and unfolded the paper slowly.
It was a printed email. From someone named Allegra Voss.
The subject line read:
If she won't tell the world the truth, I will.
And below it, a photo.
A blurry, zoomed-in image.
It was from that night.
The hotel. The elevator. Her and Julian, just before the doors closed.
Clara felt the ground shift under her feet.
Julian's voice was grave. "They're not going to wait for your version. We're out of time."
Clara stared at the photo again. Her reflection blurred in the elevator's mirrored interior. Julian's hand ghosting near hers. It wasn't scandalous. Not exactly. But the implication was enough.
Her phone buzzed again. Another message.
"You should've stayed invisible. Some people don't survive this spotlight."
She turned the screen face-down.
Julian crossed his arms. "Allegra Voss is playing a longer game. She doesn't just want a headline. She wants blood."
"I figured that much," Clara replied quietly. "She'll get it. Unless I give them something else first."
Julian didn't respond. He just watched her. There was something unreadable in his expression. Maybe pride. Maybe fear. Maybe both.
"I'm going to meet with Simone," Clara continued. "Tomorrow morning. Harper's setting it up. A sit-down interview. My words. My timeline."
Julian slowly nodded. "Do you want me there?"
Clara blinked at him.
"I mean it," he added, his voice low. "If this is your choice, I'll support it. But if you want me beside you when you speak, I'll be there."
She studied him. Not the man in the photo. Not the powerful CEO. Just the man standing in her kitchen, looking exhausted and open in a way he rarely was.
Clara nodded. "Yes. I want you there."
For the first time in hours, something unspoken passed between them. Not warmth exactly, but the possibility of it.
The next morning, Clara sat in front of a frosted glass door at The New York Post headquarters. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. Beside her, Harper paced while muttering curses under her breath about tabloids and unethical journalism.
Julian arrived five minutes late.
He wore navy today. No tie. The collar of his shirt slightly open, his hair pushed back. He looked more human than the empire.
"You came," Clara said.
"I said I would."
Before she could reply, the assistant opened the door. "Ms. Wynter? They're ready for you."
Clara stood, but Julian gently touched her arm. "One moment."
He pulled her aside, just out of earshot.
"Whatever you say in there," Julian said, voice low, "don't hold back. Even if it makes me look bad. You owe them nothing."
Clara exhaled. "Thank you."
"I mean it."
Their eyes held for a second too long.
Then she nodded and walked into the room.
A camera was already rolling. Lights pointed at the chair across from Simone, a crisp-featured woman with a steady gaze and a voice that could silence storms.
"Thank you for agreeing to this, Ms. Wynter," she said.
Clara sat down.
"You're aware of the nature of this interview? That your story will go public?"
"Yes," Clara answered. "That's why I'm here."
Simone adjusted her pen. "Then let's begin. Tell me about the night you met Julian Blackwell."
Clara opened her mouth to speak.
Outside the room, Julian stood frozen by the door, listening.
And in a distant corner of the city, a flash drive was slipped into a laptop.
A woman's voice purred over a call.
"She's talking. Time to bury her story before it spreads."