Clara barely slept her first night in the penthouse.
The bed was too soft, the room too quiet. There were no city sounds, no creaking floorboards or late-night car horns. Just stillness and space, like the walls were waiting to see if she belonged.
She lay awake long after midnight, eyes fixed on the ceiling, wondering what kind of man lived in a place like this. Wondering if he ever slept. If he ever dreamed.
By morning, sunlight streamed through the massive windows in hues of pale gold and soft gray. She pulled on a cardigan over her sleep shirt and padded barefoot into the hall.
She passed a housekeeping staff member on the way to the kitchen. The woman smiled politely and spoke gently.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwell. I'm Mrs. Delacroix. I've prepared your breakfast."
The name clicked. It had been on the handwritten note Julian left in her room.
Clara smiled back, unsure whether to thank her or apologize for being here at all.
"Thank you. You can call me Clara."
Delacroix inclined her head. "Of course."
The kitchen looked like something from a luxury design catalog. Bright, clinical, and perfectly arranged. There was a carafe of coffee already poured and a small spread of toast, eggs, and fruit placed neatly on the counter.
Clara sipped her coffee and leaned against the island. Everything was... perfect. Too perfect. Like the furniture and fixtures were here for display, not for living.
After a few quiet minutes, she wandered into one of the hallways, drawn by curiosity more than anything. She passed a study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, then a hallway gallery filled with modern paintings. Then, just ahead, she noticed a door slightly ajar.
The room beyond it didn't match the rest of the penthouse.
The lighting was dim, and the curtains were drawn. A piano sat in the corner, covered with a soft gray cloth. Several picture frames rested face down on the shelves. The room smelled faintly of dust and something older—perhaps lavender, faded by time.
Stacks of books leaned against the wall beside a worn leather armchair. The space felt untouched. Preserved. Like whoever used it once had left, and no one had dared move anything since.
Clara stepped inside, moving slowly.
It was the first room in the apartment that felt real.
She ran her hand lightly along the top of the piano, tracing the edge of the cloth.
"Don't."
The voice stopped her in her tracks.
She turned sharply. Julian stood in the doorway, his tie loose, his expression unreadable.
"I didn't mean to intrude," she said quickly. "The door was open."
He stepped into the room, eyes scanning everything as if making sure nothing had been disturbed.
"No one comes in here."
Clara took a step back. "I'm sorry. I just— I didn't know this room was off-limits."
Julian's gaze landed on the piano. His voice dropped to something softer, something almost hesitant.
"It was my sister's."
Clara's breath caught. "You have a sister?"
"I did."
The answer settled in the air like weight.
Julian walked over to the bookshelf and stood silently for a moment. Then, with a single motion, he turned one of the picture frames upright.
A young woman smiled back at them from the photograph. She had the same sharp eyes as Julian, but her smile was bright. Unfiltered.
"She died eight years ago," he said. "This was her space."
Clara hesitated, then stepped closer. "I'm so sorry."
Julian didn't speak. His eyes were fixed on the photo.
"She used to write music. Played for hours without stopping. Sometimes she'd sing, just loud enough for people in the hallway to hear, but never if someone was watching."
"She sounds wonderful."
"She was."
Clara studied his face. He was composed, as always, but there was something different about him now. The stillness in his eyes wasn't cold—it was grief, quietly held.
"You don't talk about her."
"I don't talk about a lot of things."
"Why not?"
He looked at her then. Really looked.
"Because talking doesn't change anything. And grief is... inefficient."
Clara shook her head. "That's not true. Grief is human. We don't carry it because it helps. We carry it because it's part of who we are."
Julian said nothing.
"You don't have to hide this room from everyone," she added gently. "You don't have to keep pretending you've never lost something."
He looked away.
"I never figured out how to stop pretending."
Clara moved to the piano again and rested her hand on it.
"You could start here."
He didn't ask her to leave.
And she didn't move.
For the first time since they signed the papers, something between them felt real.
Clara spent the rest of the morning trying to settle into a place that still didn't feel like hers.
She wandered the penthouse, taking note of how quiet it was even with people in it. Mrs. Delacroix moved like a whisper, dusting surfaces that were already spotless. A younger staff member named June smiled politely when she passed, delivering new linens without saying more than two words.
No one asked her questions.
No one treated her like a wife.
Just like someone... temporarily stationed.
After lunch, Clara sat curled on the velvet chaise by the window, reading a worn novel she had brought from her apartment. The words on the page weren't sinking in.
Her eyes kept drifting to the skyline, the way it stretched beyond the glass like a reminder. This was his world. Not hers.
She jumped when the intercom buzzed.
"Yes?" she asked, pressing the button.
A crisp voice answered, "There's a guest in the lobby requesting to speak with Mrs. Blackwell. She says she's a family friend. Name is Vivienne Ashcroft."
Clara blinked. Her stomach turned cold.
Julian hadn't mentioned a Vivienne. But something about the name felt familiar.
She didn't even have time to respond before the elevator pinged.
The private one.
Clara stood as the doors opened.
A woman stepped out like she owned the floor. Tall. Impeccably dressed in a pearl-colored coat and heels that echoed against the marble. Her hair was sleek, her makeup flawless, and her smile... practiced.
Clara knew her type instantly.
Entitled. Powerful. Dangerous.
"Clara Wynter," the woman said as she stopped just a few feet away. "Finally. We meet."
Clara squared her shoulders. "And you are?"
"Vivienne Ashcroft," she replied, extending a manicured hand as if this were a garden party and not a surprise confrontation in her home.
Clara didn't take it.
Vivienne's smile barely wavered. "You're prettier than the tabloids gave you credit for. Not that the bar was very high, considering how quickly you replaced me."
Clara frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you do." Vivienne's voice remained soft, but the edges were sharp. "I'm the woman Julian was supposed to marry. Until you showed up with your little scandal."
Clara felt her pulse spike.
"You should leave."
"Don't worry. I won't be long," Vivienne replied, glancing around the penthouse. "I just wanted to see for myself what kind of girl Julian threw away years of reputation for."
"You've made your point."
Vivienne tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "Has he told you yet? That his board is livid? That investors are backing out? You married into a mess. And he married into a liability."
Clara stepped forward, chin raised. "If you came here to scare me, it's not working."
Vivienne's smile grew.
"That's good. Because this world? It only gets harder. I know Julian. He builds walls for a reason. And if you think he's going to let you inside them, you're in for a very slow heartbreak."
The elevator chimed behind her. She turned smoothly.
"Tell Julian I said hello," she added over her shoulder. "I'm sure I'll see him again. Blackwells never stay loyal for long."
The doors shut.
Clara stood there, breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't sure if it was anger or fear that made her hands shake.
But one thing was clear.
Vivienne wasn't gone.
And Julian had a past she was only just beginning to uncover.