The glitter of champagne sparkled under the ballroom lights, and Clara Wynter adjusted the borrowed diamond clasp on her faux-silk clutch for the fifth time. Her heels wobbled slightly on the marble, not from the alcohol, but from sheer nerves and poor decisions that led her here.
She didn't belong in a place like this.
The Grand Bellamy Hotel was the kind of place that had valet parking for cabs, and crystal chandeliers that looked like they could pay off her student loans in a single swing. Clara wasn't used to this level of luxury. Her job as a freelance editor paid enough to keep her mother's medication stocked and the lights on, but not much else. The red satin dress she wore clung too tight and dipped too low. It wasn't hers. Neither were the heels, nor the invitation.
But she smiled anyway. Because tonight was about survival.
"Smile, flirt a little, and drink the good wine," her friend Harper had said, shoving the invite into her hand. "You deserve one night where someone sees you as more than just a tired daughter with bills."
Harper was already halfway through the guest list somewhere, probably making powerful men blush and charming their wives. Clara had no such skills. She barely knew how to hold a champagne flute without looking like she was stealing it.
"Clara Wynter," a deep voice echoed beside her.
She turned. The man approaching had the kind of presence that made the air shift. Tall, broad shoulders, dark tailored suit, and cheekbones that could cut glass. His expression was unreadable. Controlled. Every move was deliberate, precise. He didn't smile, but the intensity in his eyes made her skin tingle.
"Yes?" she said, blinking once.
"You dropped this," he said, handing her a silver compact she hadn't realized had fallen from her bag. Their fingers brushed.
It was ridiculous, but the contact sent a small jolt up her spine. She took the compact and muttered a thank you.
His gaze didn't leave hers.
"You're not from here," he said.
"Meaning...?"
"Meaning, you don't have the posture of someone used to this world." He paused. "And you're fidgeting like you're calculating rent in your head."
Clara flushed. Her fingers curled around her clutch.
"Maybe I'm just socially anxious," she said, lifting her chin.
His lips curved, just slightly. "Or maybe you're here for something else."
"Like what? A secret jewel heist?"
The curve became the barest smile. "Maybe. But you'd make a terrible thief. You stick out."
Clara rolled her eyes and turned away, embarrassed. She should walk off. She should find Harper and tell her this whole thing was a terrible idea. But then the man spoke again, quiet and low.
"I'm Julian."
She stopped.
Clara turned back slowly, watching him extend a hand.
"Clara," she replied, placing her hand in his.
His grip was firm, warm. Not too tight. It lingered longer than necessary.
There was something about him. Something controlled, yet simmering just beneath the surface. Like he was constantly restraining himself, like the world was loud and only he knew how to make it quiet. She'd never been so intrigued by a stranger before.
She should've let go first. But he did.
"I don't do small talk," Julian said. "But I do find honesty interesting."
"And what makes you think I'm honest?"
"You're not pretending to be impressed by all this," he said, nodding at the room full of wine-swirling billionaires and society darlings. "Everyone else is performing. You're just enduring."
Clara tilted her head. "That's one way to phrase being awkward."
He chuckled. It was quiet, surprised even.
A waiter passed with champagne, and Julian grabbed two flutes, handing one to her.
She hesitated. "Thank you, but I shouldn't."
"It's not drugged," he said dryly.
"I believe that. I just might trip in these heels."
"Then take them off."
Clara stared. "I beg your pardon?"
Julian raised an eyebrow. "You're uncomfortable. Why suffer through it?"
"I can't exactly walk barefoot across marble and look elegant."
He looked down at her shoes. Then at her again.
"I disagree."
For reasons she couldn't explain, that simple statement made her chest feel tight.
She took the glass.
They stood side by side, not speaking. Watching people mingle and pose and pretend. Julian sipped his drink, eyes occasionally scanning the room. Clara caught herself glancing at him when she thought he wouldn't notice. The lines of his jaw. The way his cufflinks caught the light. The stillness in him, like nothing in this room could touch him.
"You look like you're judging everyone," she said eventually.
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because most of them are frauds," Julian replied calmly. "Inherited wealth. Emptied hearts. The loudest ones in this room are usually the weakest."
Clara looked at him. "And what about you? Are you weak?"
He turned to face her fully.
"No."
She believed him.
The rest of the night blurred. A whirl of polite smiles, polite lies, dancing shadows and stolen glances. Somehow, she and Julian ended up on the hotel rooftop. The ballroom buzz fell away, replaced by the quiet hum of the city beneath them.
"I should go," Clara said, finally, after midnight.
"Go where?"
"Back to my world. Where the wine comes in boxes and no one wears diamonds to dinner."
Julian stepped closer. Not touching her. But close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"You don't belong in a world like that," he said quietly.
She laughed. "I think you have me confused with someone else."
"I don't get confused."
Her heart skipped. He was too intense. Too sure. And yet, she didn't want to move.
Julian reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered at her jaw. Her breath caught.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
He kissed her anyway.
The hotel sheets were softer than anything Clara had ever touched. They smelled like white linen and silence. The silence of rooms too expensive for questions.
She blinked against the faint morning light seeping through the heavy curtains. For one fragile moment, she didn't remember where she was.
Then she turned her head.
And saw him.
Julian.
The man from the gala. The man with the glacier stare and quiet hands. His suit jacket was draped over the chair. His watch rested on the marble nightstand. And he was asleep beside her, one arm stretched across the pillow where she had been resting.
Clara sat up slowly, the sheet clutched to her chest. Her dress lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Her heels were by the minibar. Her heart thudded in her chest.
Oh no.
What had she done?
It had been one night. A perfect storm of exhaustion, champagne, loneliness, and a man who had looked at her like she wasn't invisible.
She pressed her hand to her temple. This wasn't her. She didn't do things like this. She didn't go home with strangers. She didn't fall into bed with men who wore cufflinks worth more than her rent.
Except, apparently, she did.
Clara slipped out of bed as quietly as she could, carefully gathering her dress and shoes. She didn't want to wake him. Not because she was afraid of him, but because facing him now, in the harsh honesty of daylight, would make this real.
Last night had been magic. This morning would be a mess.
She pulled her dress over her head and tiptoed toward the door, her heels dangling from her fingers. She glanced back once.
Julian hadn't moved.
Still asleep. Still beautiful. Still terrifyingly out of her league.
Clara left without leaving a note.
No name. No goodbye. No expectations.
Just a clean escape.
Or so she thought.
The subway back to Brooklyn was loud and unforgiving. Clara sat wedged between a woman with grocery bags and a man watching a K-drama on full volume. The city pulsed around her with its usual rhythm. Fast. Harsh. Oblivious.
She stared out the window, numb.
Her phone buzzed.
Harper: WHERE DID YOU GO LAST NIGHT
Harper: YOU VANISHED
Harper: OMG WHO WAS THAT MAN
Harper: Spill it. Now.
Clara sighed and typed back slowly.
Clara: Long story. I'm home. I'm fine.
She wasn't fine.
She was a mess.
She didn't even know his last name.
Three weeks later, Clara was curled on her sofa, wearing a hoodie and editing the latest chapter of a YA fantasy novel about time-traveling assassins, when her stomach flipped.
She barely made it to the bathroom in time.
After the third day of random nausea, she caved and bought a pregnancy test.
She didn't panic. Not at first. These things happened. Stress. Hormones. Her body hated her sometimes. But the voice in her head wouldn't stop whispering.
You were careless.
You were reckless.
You didn't even ask his name.
She sat on the edge of the bathtub, test in hand, staring at the little window.
Two lines.
She blinked. Hard.
No.
She checked the box again. Read the instructions. Shook the test like it was a magic 8-ball that gave the wrong answer.
Two pink lines.
She was pregnant.
Clara stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were wide. Her lips parted in disbelief.
She laughed once, but it came out cracked.
"This can't be happening."
But it was.
And the father?
A man she didn't know. A man who didn't know her. A man whose first name she only remembered because he said it once, like it wasn't important.
Julian.
God, she didn't even know if that was his real name.
Harper dropped her fork.
"Wait. Wait wait wait." She leaned across the café table. "You're pregnant?"
Clara nodded once, lips tight.
"And the guy is the man from the gala?"
"Yes."
Harper stared. "The one who looked like he owns half of Manhattan and could ruin people with a phone call?"
"That one."
Harper blinked. "You don't have his number?"
"No."
"Last name?"
"No."
"Any information that might help us find him on LinkedIn?"
Clara groaned. "No."
Harper leaned back in her seat. "Girl."
"I know."
"You are living the plot of every drama I've ever watched."
Clara buried her face in her hands.
"I wasn't supposed to fall into bed with anyone. I was supposed to flirt, maybe network, maybe get a contact for an editing job. That's it."
"But you got a baby."
"I got a problem."
Harper reached out and touched her hand.
"No. You got a baby. And I know you. You'll love this kid more than anything."
Clara bit her lip.
"But?"
"But I'm scared. I don't even know what I'm doing tomorrow, let alone in nine months."
Harper's voice softened.
"You don't have to figure it all out today. You just have to take the next step."
Clara looked up. "Which is?"
Harper raised an eyebrow. "Finding Julian."
It turned out Julian had found her first.
A week later, Clara came home to find a sleek black car parked outside her building.
A man in a sharp grey suit stood beside it, checking his watch.
"Clara Wynter?" he asked.
She froze. "Yes?"
He handed her a card.
Blackwell Capital. Julian Blackwell. Chairman and CEO.
"Mr. Blackwell requests your presence. Now."
She blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
The man didn't smile. "He said you'd understand."
Clara held the card, her heart racing.
Julian had a last name.
And he was a billionaire.
Of course he was.
Because her life wasn't complicated enough.
She looked up at the man and took a breath.
"Take me to him."