Page 127 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

The chauffeur opens the rear door, and I slide inside while the luggage is loaded into the trunk. As the car pulls away, I lift my hand toward Lucia and the staff standing near the entrance. The villa recedes behind us, first framed by the trees and then disappearing almost entirely as we pass through the gates.

I twist slightly in my seat and look through the rear window until I can no longer see it. The last few days already feel detached from everything that existed before them. They were too private, too intense, and too perfect to fit neatly back into ordinary life.

My phone vibrates against my palm. I turn toward the front again and open Grace’s first voicemail. Her voice comes through the speaker immediately:

Grace: “Umm, Hi. I need an update. There are reports brewing all over the media about Blackwell. I know we have a scheduled check-in once you get back from Italy, but something is happening. Call me as soon as you can.”

I sit straighter because the word reports immediately catches my attention. I replay the message once and then check the timestamp. Grace called while Julian and I were still at the estate.

The second voicemail is shorter.

Grace: “Sophie, call me when you get this.”

A small knot forms beneath my ribs. I open Maya’s messages next.

Maya: Babe, how are you? When do you get back? I read a crazy thing on Twitter today about Blackwell, but it might be one of those fake-news stories. Anyway, I am dying to know how the past few days have been! Call me!

I stare at the screen while the pieces begin to connect. Blackwell, Julian’s phone lighting up with messages, the calls from Adrian and Vivian, and the shortened trip all point toward something serious. I immediately open my browser, but the page takes too long to load.

I try again, but the signal drops to one bar as the car winds higher along the road above the lake.

“Come on,” I mutter.

The page refreshes halfway and then freezes, so I switch to another news app. Nothing appears.

My phone vibrates again. This time, it is not a message but a breaking-news alert. I read the headline once and then read it again.

Blackwell Technologies Faces International Antitrust Investigation.

My stomach drops. “What the fuck?”

The chauffeur glances at me briefly through the rearview mirror before returning his attention to the road. I tap the alert, and the article begins to load, giving me only fragments before the signal disappears again. The fragments mention international regulators, competition practices, multiple jurisdictions, and Blackwell Technologies, but the screen stalls when I try to scroll.

“No. No, no, no.”

I toggle airplane mode, turn it off again, and try another source. A second alert appears, followed by a third. The outlets are different, but the story is the same.

My mind starts racing through everything I have seen over the past several days, including Vivian’s call in Milan, Julian’s sudden change in mood, Clive waiting for him at the dock yesterday, the emails, and his decision to leave early. He knew something was happening, although he might not have known that it would become this large.

I open our messages and start typing.

Sophie: Are you seeing this?

The message hangs on the screen without being delivered. I stare at it while the car continues winding away from the lake. The signal returns briefly, allowing another headline to populate before disappearing again.

I try Grace, but the call fails. I try Maya, and nothing happens. The timing is almost absurd. For days, I have been surrounded by flawless Wi-Fi, private cars, helicopters, staff, and every possible convenience money can buy. Now, when I need one functioning connection, I am sitting on a mountain road with a phone that might as well be a brick.

By the time we reach the outskirts on the way toward Milan, I have managed to load only pieces of three different articles. None of them is complete enough to tell me exactly what is happening, but the tone is unmistakable. This is not gossip, and it is not a speculative business story. Something real has broken.

I look down at Julian’s unanswered message. Less than a few hours ago, I watched him leave the villa believing that we had time to talk, figure out what came next, and decide what this could become once the assignment was over. Now every major news outlet on my phone is carrying his company’s name in a headline he cannot control.

I lock the screen and stare through the window as the lake disappears behind the mountains. Whatever was waiting for us outside of our bubble has finally arrived.

Chapter Eighteen

Julian

Forty-eight hours after I land in New York, I am still wearing the shirt I changed into yesterday morning. I haven't been home. The sofa in my office has become a bed for the two or three hours I manage between conference calls, and the private bathroom down the hall is the only reason I don't look as exhausted as I feel. Someone keeps replacing the coffee on my desk before it goes cold. Someone else keeps leaving food I barely touch.