Clara had never sat in the back of a luxury car before.
The leather felt too smooth, the silence too unnatural, as if even the air had been filtered and conditioned. The windows muted the sounds of honking and hurried New York lives, as if she were floating above them all.
She clutched the business card in her palm.
Julian Blackwell.
Not just a name. A brand. A reputation. A weight that carried influence across boardrooms, banks, and now, apparently, her life.
The driver, dressed in a sharp gray suit, didn't speak unless necessary. Just a polite nod when he opened the door. Just a calm voice when he said, "We'll arrive shortly, Ms. Wynter."
Ms. Wynter. Not Clara. Not "the woman from that night." Not anything familiar. It chilled her more than the air-conditioning.
She was beginning to question why she agreed to this. But then she remembered the morning sickness, the bill from the OB clinic tucked into her purse, and the envelope she hadn't opened from her landlord.
She didn't have the luxury to hesitate.
They turned into a private entrance to an office tower so tall it seemed to disappear into the sky. Sleek black glass, steel columns, and a security team that looked like they could disarm a threat with a glance.
Clara stepped out, suddenly aware of her secondhand blouse and flats.
"Top floor," the driver said. "Penthouse elevator will take you straight to Mr. Blackwell."
He didn't offer to walk her in.
Maybe she was just another appointment on Julian's schedule. Like a quarterly earnings report. A liability to assess.
The elevator was silent, save for the soft hum of movement. As she ascended, Clara caught her reflection in the gold paneling.
She looked pale. A little breathless. Her fingers clutched her purse like it might save her.
She didn't expect to feel this small.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
His office was a city in itself.
All glass and steel. A panoramic view of Manhattan stretching across the entire north wall. Sparse decor. No family photos. No clutter. Just one long desk, a private seating area with charcoal leather sofas, and a man standing with his back to her, hands in his pockets.
Julian.
He turned the moment she stepped in, as if he had known the second the doors opened.
Same sharp suit. Same unreadable face. But now, in daylight, the atmosphere between them had changed. No rooftop. No champagne. No stolen warmth.
Just the facts.
Clara took a shallow breath.
"Hi."
Julian said nothing at first. His eyes scanned her face like he was searching for something she hadn't offered.
"You came," he said finally.
"I wasn't aware I had a choice."
"You did. You made the right one."
He walked toward her, calm, composed, terrifying in how little he seemed affected.
Clara forced herself not to flinch.
"I'm sorry for disappearing," she said, not knowing why she said it. "It felt easier."
Julian stopped just a few feet away.
"It was careless," he said plainly. "But I understand why you did it."
That stunned her. She expected coldness, anger, maybe even dismissal. Not understanding.
"I didn't plan for this," Clara said, placing a protective hand over her belly.
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her face.
"I don't expect you did."
There was a long pause.
"Why did you send a car?" she asked quietly.
"Because I didn't want you walking into this building alone. Or feeling out of place. You may not see it yet, but this child—" His voice softened slightly. "—makes you part of something larger now."
Clara stared at him.
"I don't want your money," she said. "If that's what you're about to offer."
Julian's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
"I wasn't."
"Then what do you want?"
His answer was simple. Sharp.
"Control."
Clara tensed. "Excuse me?"
"I don't trust luck, Clara. I don't trust chaos. And right now, this situation is both. You're carrying my child. That gives you the ability to make decisions that could impact both of our lives."
"I wasn't planning to make demands," she said stiffly.
"That's not the point."
He stepped back, walked to his desk, and picked up a folder.
"I want to marry you," Julian said, like it was the most logical thing in the world.
Clara froze.
"You what?"
"On paper. Legally. You and I. Married."
She took a step back. "Are you out of your mind?"
He set the folder down and looked up.
"No. I'm being practical."
"You want to marry someone you barely know because of a child you didn't plan for?"
Julian was calm. Too calm.
"I want to create structure. You're overwhelmed. I can help. This child will have security, protection, and access to a future most children can't dream of."
Clara laughed, but it cracked.
"And what do I get? A ring and a penthouse while you pretend this isn't happening?"
"You get freedom," Julian replied.
That silenced her.
"You get time to breathe, time to focus on what matters. Your mother's health. Your work. Your baby. You won't have to worry about rent or medical bills or employment contracts. I'll take care of it."
He stepped around the desk, closer now.
"And in return, you agree to let me be part of this child's life from the beginning. No secrets. No disappearing. No uncertainty."
Clara couldn't speak.
Not because she was angry.
But because, deep down, some part of her wanted exactly what he was offering. Stability. Not love. Not passion.
Just air.
She looked up at him.
"And what happens when this contract expires?"
Julian's voice dropped lower.
"We dissolve the marriage quietly. You keep everything I promised. I move on. You move on."
She searched his face.
"And if I fall in love with you?"
His eyes flickered.
"Then that would be your mistake to make."
Silence stretched between them like wire, too tight to breathe through.
Clara stood frozen, arms crossed over her chest as if she could shield herself from his proposal. From the walls of this immaculate office. From the man who didn't blink as he suggested turning their accident into a transaction.
"I can't just... marry someone because it's convenient," she said, her voice softer now. "This isn't a business deal."
Julian's expression didn't shift. "It is, in part. And that's why it will work."
She walked to the windows and stared out at the city. The buildings stretched into the sky like they belonged there. Solid. Permanent. Nothing like her.
"Do you always think this way?" she asked. "That everything can be controlled, negotiated, planned?"
"It's kept me alive."
"That's not the same as living."
Julian looked at her then. Really looked. There was something unguarded in his face for just a second. Not sorrow, but something older. A weight he didn't speak of.
Clara turned back to him.
"I'm not saying no," she said carefully. "But I'm not saying yes either. You dropped a marriage proposal like it was a spreadsheet."
"I offered a solution."
"I need time."
"Time is fine. But the press won't wait long." Julian walked to his desk again and slid a folder toward her. "There's already speculation about my personal life. If your name leaks—and it will—it's only a matter of time before they find out you're pregnant."
Clara's stomach twisted.
"I won't let them hound you," he said. "But marriage will shut them up faster than silence."
She stared at the folder, then at him.
"And you're really okay with marrying someone who doesn't love you?"
Julian held her gaze. "I don't need love. I need commitment."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
He didn't flinch. "It's also the most honest."
Clara walked to the folder and opened it, half-expecting it to bite her. Instead, she saw neatly arranged paperwork, drafted with alarming precision.
A marital agreement. No alimony clause. Full medical coverage. A housing arrangement. A confidentiality clause.
Even a "respect in public" clause.
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.
"This doesn't scare you?" she asked.
"No," Julian said. "It grounds me."
She closed the folder.
"I need to go."
Julian nodded once, not offended. "I'll have the car take you back."
She paused at the door.
"Julian?"
He looked up.
"If I agree to this, you don't get to treat me like a problem. Or a business asset. I'm not a deal you're negotiating."
Julian's voice was quieter this time.
"Understood."
She stepped out into the hallway, heart pounding. Not because of the marriage. Not even because of the baby.
But because she had just seen the faintest crack in a man who had built his life out of glass and steel.
And part of her wasn't sure she'd survive being the one to break it open.
Later that night, Clara sat at the kitchen table in her tiny apartment. Her mother was asleep in the other room, breathing softly through the open door. The lamp buzzed. Her tea had gone cold.
She stared at the folder Julian had sent with her. It rested on the table like a dare.
Marry Julian Blackwell.
Protect her child.
Trade uncertainty for security.
She reached out and traced his signature on the final page.
Then she pulled a pen from her drawer.
She didn't sign.
Not yet.
But she didn't throw it away either.