Beneath the Noise

Clara did not sleep.

Not really.

She lay in the guest room bed with the lights off, her body still and eyes open, listening to the distant sound of the city below. Somewhere past the glass, taxis honked and tires hissed across rain-soaked roads. But in here, in the quiet cocoon of Julian's penthouse, everything felt too still.

Her heart kept echoing that one terrible truth.

She hated that she missed him even when he was inches away.

She had not meant to say it out loud.

But the words had slipped out, like steam escaping from a pot that had been boiling too long.

She had come back not because she forgave him, but because she could not stay away.

Not yet.

Not while everything between them still burned like this.

In the morning, she rose early, careful not to make a sound as she padded into the kitchen. She had meant to leave before he woke, maybe scribble a note, maybe just disappear. But the moment she reached for a glass of water, she turned and found Julian standing in the doorway.

Hair rumpled. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Eyes dark from lack of sleep.

For the first time, he did not look like a CEO or a billionaire.

He looked like a man trying not to fall apart.

Clara froze, glass in hand. "You're up."

Julian nodded once. "I couldn't sleep."

A silence bloomed between them.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just filled with everything they hadn't said.

"I left the sketchbook out," he said quietly.

She looked at him, unsure whether it was an invitation or an apology.

"I didn't mean to," he added. "But I'm glad I did."

Clara turned away, her fingers tightening slightly around the glass.

"I wasn't going to come back," she said.

"I know."

"But I couldn't leave things like that."

Julian stepped forward slowly, as if afraid to break the fragile truce between them.

"I don't want to keep hurting you," he said. "But I don't know how to be with you without ruining things."

Clara's throat tightened.

"That's the problem, Julian. You think love is something you control. Something you can predict, like a contract or a meeting."

He didn't argue. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides.

"I don't need you to be perfect," she said. "I just need you to let me in."

Another silence. This one heavier.

Julian looked down at his hands, then back at her. "I don't know how."

Her chest ached at the honesty in his voice.

But she nodded, softly.

"Then let that be the start."

They did not move toward each other. Not yet.

But something shifted. A step taken, not with feet, but with truth.

And sometimes, that was the hardest step of all.

Julian didn't say another word.

Instead, he walked to the coffee machine and quietly started preparing two mugs. Clara watched him, the way his hands moved like he needed the routine to hold himself together. She didn't stop him.

He poured hers exactly how she liked it. A splash of oat milk, one spoon of sugar. No questions asked.

He remembered.

She took the cup from his hands. Their fingers brushed.

It was nothing.

It was everything.

They sat in silence at the long kitchen counter, sipping quietly. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still hung low, casting a soft gray over the city skyline. The kind of morning that made you want to stay indoors and pretend the world outside didn't exist.

"I used to think," Clara began, her voice gentle, "that the hardest part of this would be raising a child alone."

Julian didn't interrupt.

"But that's not it. It's the not knowing. Not knowing what you really want from me."

"I want—" he started, then stopped.

Clara turned to him, searching his expression. "You don't have to pretend anymore, Julian. I already know you care. You wouldn't be this torn up if you didn't."

He set down his mug, then slowly turned to her. "I care more than I should. That's the problem."

She let out a small laugh, bitter and warm all at once. "Why is that a problem?"

"Because when I care, I lose control. And when I lose control, people get hurt."

His words came out quietly, almost like a confession.

Clara's expression softened. "Not everyone will leave you, Julian."

He looked at her like he wanted to believe that. Like he wanted to reach for her and hold on.

But he didn't.

"I have a meeting at eleven," he said instead.

And just like that, he was retreating into structure again.

Clara nodded and slid off her stool. "I should go."

She didn't mean it. Not really.

But she couldn't stay in a moment that wasn't moving forward.

Julian stood as well. "Let me call a driver."

"No need." She pulled her coat on, brushing past him gently. "I'll walk."

"Clara"

She turned at the door.

"I'm not asking for everything, Julian. Just something real. Something that isn't hidden behind silence or fear."

He opened his mouth, but she had already stepped into the elevator.

And as the doors slid shut between them, Julian was left staring at his own reflection in the glass. A man who had everything, and no idea how to hold on to what mattered most.

The wind was still sharp when Clara stepped out of the building.

A chill slid down the collar of her coat, reminding her she hadn't brought a scarf. She pulled her arms tighter around herself, walking quickly without checking her phone. She needed to move. To breathe. To be away from the apartment that smelled too much like memories and the man who couldn't say what she already knew.

But she didn't get far.

Just across the street, parked casually beside a silver sedan, a figure leaned against a car door holding a cigarette and wearing a leather jacket.

Vincent.

Her pace faltered.

He wasn't smoking. Just holding the unlit stick like a prop, the way he used to during press appearances when he needed something to do with his hands. His eyes met hers, and that smirk — the one that used to slide under her skin during interviews — returned.

"I heard you're living the dream now," he said smoothly. "Billionaire's baby. Fairytale romance. I almost didn't believe it."

Clara froze. Her fingers curled around the strap of her handbag.

"Don't worry," he continued. "I'm not here to start drama. Just thought it'd be polite to give a little warning."

She stared at him, unsure whether to speak or walk away.

"People are asking questions, Clara. Journalists. Investors. Even some of the old shareholders from Blackwell." He flicked the cigarette between his fingers. "You'd be surprised how fast a story spreads once the press gets wind that Julian Blackwell has a secret family."

She didn't respond.

Vincent stepped forward, lowering his voice just enough for only her to hear.

"Someone's going to publish soon. I just thought you deserved to know. After all, it's your face that's going to be on the front page."

He turned and opened the car door.

"Have a nice morning."

Then he drove off, leaving Clara alone on the sidewalk, the world suddenly too loud, too bright, too fragile.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

It was a message from Harper.

Have you seen the article?

And beneath that, a screenshot. A tabloid headline.

Heiress? Mistress? Who is the Woman Behind Julian Blackwell's Disappearance from the Boardroom?

Clara read it twice, her heart hammering. Then again.

Because her name was there.

And so was her photo.

Taken outside the apartment. This morning.