The article hit the internet before the coffee cooled.
By nine in the morning, The New York Post ran the headline across every platform.
"Clara Wynter Speaks: The Woman Behind Julian Blackwell's Secret Marriage"
It wasn't tabloid trash. It was worse—it was elegant. Crafted. Every word spun in gold, with just enough truth to be dangerous.
Clara's photo sat at the top. Simple. Soft light. Her gaze direct, shoulders square.
Inside the article, she spoke about her pregnancy. About her decision to marry Julian. She didn't beg for sympathy. She didn't ask for forgiveness.
She told the truth. Or most of it.
Julian read it at his desk in complete silence.
Damien lingered nearby, watching him. "It could've been worse."
Julian looked up. His expression was unreadable. "It will be worse. This is only the first match."
Damien's phone buzzed. "Vincent just posted something."
Julian didn't ask what. He already knew the strategy. Undermine. Distract. Bury the story with noise.
He opened the link anyway.
"Interesting how the Blackwell brand prefers secrecy over transparency. I wonder what else their CEO is hiding." — Vincent Hale, 8:43 a.m.
"Of course," Julian muttered. "He's using this as cover."
"Do we respond?" Damien asked.
Julian's jaw tightened. "No. Not yet. I want to see where he's aiming."
Across town, Clara sat in Harper's apartment, her hands shaking just slightly as she refreshed the article's comment section.
Some were kind.
Most were not.
She had expected that.
What she hadn't expected was the email in her inbox.
From Vera Vogue.
"Ms. Wynter, we'd like to discuss a feature story for next month's cover—an intimate look at your journey. Interested?"
Clara stared at it for a long time.
"Say yes," Harper said from across the kitchen, holding her second coffee of the morning. "Say yes before they realize you're actually too good for them."
"It's not that easy," Clara murmured.
"Why not?"
Clara hesitated. "Because if I do this… there's no going back."
Harper set the coffee down. Her tone softened. "You're already in it, Clara. Now you get to decide what kind of woman you want to be inside it."
Clara read the email again. And this time, she imagined her name on the cover.
She imagined owning the narrative.
Not just surviving.
Becoming someone who writes her own story.
She reached for her laptop.
But before she could hit reply, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
A new message.
"You think this is your story? Try reading this."
Attached was a file.
She clicked it. Her screen flashed. Then loaded.
Her own name.
Tied to an old clinic. A decision from years ago. Something she thought no one knew.
Harper walked over and stopped when she saw the screen.
"Clara," she whispered. "That's… that's not supposed to be public."
Clara's fingers trembled over the keyboard.
Who had found this?
And worse, who was about to use it?
Clara closed the laptop, her heart hammering too loud to think.
Harper stood frozen beside her, arms crossed, eyes darting between the screen and Clara's pale face. "That can't be real. It has to be fake."
"It's real," Clara said quietly. "I recognize the name. I recognize the date."
Harper's voice dropped. "But that was… years ago."
Clara nodded once.
A choice made in desperation. A clinic she visited when she was barely twenty-two, still working two jobs, still trying to keep the lights on after her mother's first surgery. No one had known. Not even Harper.
Until now.
And whoever had sent the file knew enough to weaponize it.
Harper lowered herself onto the edge of the couch. "Who would dig that up?"
Clara swallowed hard. "Vincent? Allegra? Maybe even Vivienne. I don't know. But it doesn't matter who sent it."
She picked up the phone again.
A new message followed the file.
"This is just the beginning. Stay in your place, Mrs. Blackwell."
Clara's hands tightened around the device.
"I'm going to Julian," she said.
Harper grabbed her wrist. "Think for a second. You just went public. This leak was timed to punish you for it."
"I know."
"They're trying to scare you off. Humiliate you."
"I know."
Harper's grip softened. "You're not alone in this."
Clara didn't reply. She stood, grabbed her coat, and walked out without another word.
The ride to Blackwell Capital was a blur. By the time she stepped off the elevator into the executive suite, the receptionist had already buzzed through.
"Mrs. Blackwell is here for Mr. Blackwell."
The door to Julian's office opened almost immediately.
He was already standing.
He looked at her like he had been waiting.
"Clara," he said.
She stepped inside.
"There's something you need to see," she said, walking past him to his desk and placing her phone in front of him.
Julian read the message, then opened the file.
His jaw didn't move. His eyes, however, sharpened. Slowly.
Clara waited. Breath held.
Finally, he looked up.
"How long have they had this?"
"I don't know."
"And no one else knew?"
Clara shook her head.
Julian closed the file.
"This is blackmail."
Clara nodded once. "And it's only the beginning."
Julian sat, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.
"I'll make sure this never sees the light of day."
Clara blinked. "You don't have to"
"I will," he said, firmer. "Because this isn't about protecting me anymore. It's about protecting you."
She stared at him, chest tight.
Julian leaned back, his eyes dark with calculation. "Someone declared war. So now, we respond."
Behind him, Damien stepped in through the side door.
"I just got a call," he said. "Vera Vogue leaked Clara's name to their investors before the article even dropped. Someone's setting her up."
Julian stood.
"Find out who. Start with Vincent. Then Marcus. Then Vivienne."
Damien nodded.
"And Clara?" Julian said, turning to her again.
"Yes?"
"You're not going to do another thing alone."
Clara bit her lip, the tension in her shoulders cracking.
"And you're going to be at the next board meeting," he added. "As my wife. If they want a scandal, they can try to look you in the eye and say it to your face."
Clara met his gaze.
For the first time that day, she didn't feel like she was falling.
She felt like she had someone to fall with.
The boardroom felt colder than usual. Clara stood at Julian's side as the members of Blackwell Capital filed in one by one, their gazes sharp, whispers trailing behind them like smoke.
Every chair was filled.
Damien stood off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly watching everyone's movements. Harper had insisted on coming too and now sat just outside with a legal assistant and Elise Park on standby.
Julian didn't say a word as the final attendee entered.
Marcus Lang.
His smile was as thin as ever.
"Julian," Marcus greeted, loosening his tie with calculated ease. "And… Mrs. Blackwell. What a surprise."
Clara offered a short nod. "Morning."
Marcus didn't hide his smirk.
The meeting opened with a review of the quarter's numbers. The discussion circled the usual themes until Marcus leaned back, folding his hands with mock concern.
"I think we're ignoring the elephant in the room," he said smoothly. "Given the… recent publicity surrounding the Blackwell name."
He glanced at Clara.
Clara didn't flinch.
Julian looked up from his notes. "You mean the leak of personal medical data and tabloid interference?"
Marcus raised his brow. "Sensitive files like that should never fall into the wrong hands. Makes one wonder how secure things are… even at the top."
Damien cut in. "There's no evidence linking any breach to Blackwell Capital's systems."
"But there is plenty of chatter," Marcus replied. "And when shareholders chatter, stock prices tremble."
Julian leaned forward, voice quiet but deadly.
"Are you accusing my wife of being a liability, Marcus?"
Marcus chuckled. "I'm saying perception matters. Perhaps it's time for Mrs. Blackwell to consider… taking a step back. From public involvement. For the good of the company."
Clara's eyes narrowed. "You mean disappear."
Marcus offered a shrug. "Call it what you like."
Julian stood.
The room fell silent.
"My wife is not stepping back," he said. "In fact, starting next week, she'll be joining our philanthropic board initiatives. Publicly. Permanently."
Marcus scoffed. "That isn't protocol."
Julian's voice was ice. "I am the protocol."
Clara glanced up at him.
The room seemed to shift.
Julian wasn't just defending her. He was drawing a line. One the rest of them couldn't cross without consequence.
He turned back to the table.
"If any member of this board continues to peddle private information to the press, or interfere with the personal lives of my family, they will be dealt with legally and financially. Consider this your final warning."
The boardroom stayed quiet.
Even Marcus didn't respond.
Not yet.
As the meeting adjourned, Clara turned to leave, her pulse still racing.
Outside, Elise caught up to her.
"Get ready," she said softly. "They'll hit harder next time."
Clara nodded. "Let them."
She walked down the hallway alone for a moment, heels clicking softly across the polished floor.
At the end of the corridor, Harper stood waiting.
She held up a phone.
"There's a new article out," she said.
Clara took it.
Her name was in the headline.
So was a photo of her leaving the clinic.
But beneath it all was a single, chilling line:
"Sources confirm this is only the beginning."