The courthouse was quiet.
No flowers. No music. No family.
Just a woman in a simple white blouse and pale skirt, standing beside a man in a navy suit so sharp it looked like it was carved from authority itself.
Clara signed her name with trembling fingers.
She didn't look at Julian as she passed the pen.
He took it without comment, his movements smooth and confident. He didn't pause. Didn't hesitate. Just signed the marriage license like he was approving another investment.
Done.
The officiant, a judge in her sixties with tired eyes and a polite voice, looked up from the desk.
"Is this a legal union for purposes of joint estate and parentage?"
Julian's voice was steady. "Yes."
"Do you both understand that this agreement holds the weight of any lawful marriage?"
Clara nodded. Her voice didn't come.
Julian's did. "We do."
The judge glanced between them.
"No vows?"
Julian shook his head once. "Not today."
Clara wished she didn't feel the sting of that.
The judge stamped the document, slid it into a folder, and stood.
"Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. Congratulations."
The word sounded strange. Like it didn't belong in the same room as them.
Clara stood still, hands at her sides. She didn't expect kisses or rings or confetti. But she thought maybe he'd at least look at her.
Instead, Julian simply turned to the judge and thanked her.
It wasn't until they stepped out into the hallway, the heavy courthouse doors closing behind them, that he finally turned to her.
"You're officially protected now."
Clara blinked. "Is that what this was? Protection?"
"In every way that matters."
She bit her lip. "You know, most people say 'congratulations' or 'you look beautiful' or at least pretend they mean it."
Julian's gaze softened slightly. "You do look beautiful."
"Even without the diamond gown?"
He looked at her for a moment longer. "Especially without it."
It startled her, how quietly sincere that sounded.
Before she could reply, a flash went off.
Clara flinched.
A camera.
A man across the street with a telephoto lens. Another hiding behind a parked car. Two more emerging from a black SUV. They had waited for the paperwork to go through.
"Damn it," Julian muttered under his breath.
He stepped forward, shielding her with his body as more cameras began to click.
"Mr. Blackwell, is this the woman from the gala?"
"Is she pregnant?"
"Why a secret courthouse wedding?"
"Did Vivienne know?"
"Get in the car," Julian said, his hand firm on her back.
The driver opened the door instantly, and Clara climbed in, pulse racing. Julian followed, and the car pulled off before the doors even fully shut.
Inside, silence.
Clara stared out the window, her heart thudding.
"Was this your idea of 'protection'?" she asked finally.
"They weren't supposed to know. I'll handle it."
She turned to him. "You keep saying that. Like this is something you can just... manage. But I'm not a headline. I'm a person."
His jaw clenched. "I never said you weren't."
"But you treat me like a strategy."
Julian's eyes were sharp when they met hers. "I treat you like someone who deserves safety."
Clara stared at him.
"And what do you get out of this?"
He didn't answer.
Because the truth was, he didn't know yet.
Maybe control. Maybe power. Maybe redemption.
Or maybe he got something he never planned for.
Something like love.
But neither of them said that word.
Not yet.
Not today.
The elevator glided upward with the quiet confidence of something that knew it didn't belong to regular people.
Clara held her overnight bag tightly against her side, watching the floor numbers blink silently above the doors.
Julian stood beside her, silent, as always.
They hadn't spoken since the courthouse.
The ride up to his penthouse felt like ascending into someone else's life. And in a way, she was. Someone else's name. Someone else's address. A version of reality that had been bought, not built.
When the elevator doors opened, Clara almost forgot to breathe.
The space was breathtaking. Modern, vast, and so immaculately curated that it felt like walking into a luxury showroom instead of a home. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the entire east wall, giving her a sweeping view of the Manhattan skyline. Neutral tones dominated the color scheme—glass, marble, charcoal, and just the right amount of gold.
It was stunning.
And hollow.
Like a perfect frame with no photo inside.
Julian stepped in and placed his phone and keys on a matte black console table by the door.
"You'll have the guest room for now," he said, gesturing down a long hallway. "Unless you'd prefer something else."
Clara walked in slowly, her shoes silent against the polished wood floors.
"It's beautiful," she said, though it felt like a lie. Or at least, a half-truth. Because beauty without warmth felt empty.
Julian watched her with that same unreadable expression. "If there's anything missing, I'll have it arranged."
She turned toward him.
"Do you always solve problems by throwing money at them?"
"Usually, it works."
"It won't work with me."
"I'm starting to realize that."
His voice wasn't sarcastic. Just quiet. Honest in a way that made her chest tighten.
Julian motioned to the hallway.
"The guest room has its own bathroom and closet. You can stay there as long as you like. Or we can arrange for a second property if this feels too... uncomfortable."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "So I can be your wife, but not live under the same roof?"
"I don't want you to feel cornered."
She dropped her bag by the door. "Julian, I already signed the contract. The cornering has been done."
He flinched slightly at that, but didn't argue.
"Dinner's at seven. You don't need to attend if you're tired."
Clara watched him walk away down the corridor, his shoulders stiff.
She wasn't sure if he was retreating or giving her space.
Maybe both.
The guest room looked like a five-star hotel suite. It even smelled expensive — like lavender and money. But it was impersonal. No photos. No books. No mess. It was the kind of place you stay in, not live in.
Clara opened the closet. Empty hangers. Drawers lined in velvet. A note on the dresser with her name in elegant script.
Welcome home. If anything is needed, please contact Mrs. Delacroix. — J.B.
She sat on the bed.
Home.
The word felt like an echo. She didn't know what home was anymore.
Not since her dad died. Not since her mom got sick. Not since she'd stopped dreaming and started surviving.
And now she was here.
Married to a man who didn't believe in love.
Carrying a child she wasn't ready for.
Living in a place that belonged to a stranger.
Dinner was quiet.
Too quiet.
Julian sat across from her at the long glass dining table, flipping through a set of documents while eating grilled salmon and sautéed greens like it was just another Tuesday.
Clara stirred her soup.
"This is very formal for two people who got married today," she muttered.
Julian looked up. "Would you prefer something else?"
"I don't know. Maybe music? Conversation? A toast?"
He set the papers down. "I didn't think you'd want any of that."
"I didn't say I wanted champagne and roses, Julian. But maybe we could at least pretend we're not strangers."
He paused.
"I'm not good at pretending."
"Then try being real."
A beat passed.
Then he spoke.
"I haven't had a real dinner with another person in over four years."
Clara blinked.
"Why not?"
He stared at his fork. "It didn't seem necessary."
"Wow," she said softly. "You really do live like a ghost."
He looked up.
And for the first time, Clara saw something behind those cold eyes.
Loneliness.
Deep and buried.
She softened. "I'm not asking for a love story. Just... don't shut me out. If we're going to do this whatever this is I need honesty. I need you to meet me halfway."
Julian didn't speak for a long moment.
Then, almost inaudibly, he said, "I'll try."
And for now, that was enough.