Page 155 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

The tears finally come. “I know.”

When the call ends, I sit alone in the quiet apartment with my resignation behind me and California suddenly ahead. My hand settles over my stomach again as I think about Julian, about the life changing inside me, and about everything that could happen if either of them becomes part of the story consuming the Blackwell name.

For now, silence is the only thing I know how to give this child that feels remotely like protection.

Chapter Twenty

Julian

It’s nearly midnight when the office finally goes quiet enough for me to hear the hum of the ventilation system. The city stretches beyond the windows in hard lines of white and gold, traffic threading through Manhattan far below while the forty-fourth floor sits mostly dark around me. I haven’t gone home. There’s no point. Tomorrow begins in less than six hours, and the sofa in my office has become more familiar than my own bed.

My desk is covered in paper: printed copies of the article, legal memoranda, screenshots of headlines, notes from counsel, investor summaries, Preston’s latest demands for additional review, and Richard’s comments on containment. Every surface carries some version of the same problem.

I pick up the article again and stare at the headline I’ve seen repeated everywhere for days.

THE BLACKWELL DYNASTY: LEGACY OR LIES?

I already know the byline.

Kate Hobbes.

My eyes move farther down the page until they reach Sophie’s name beneath the reporting credits, and that’s the part I still can’t reconcile.

I pour another measure of whiskey and sit back in the chair, letting the glass rest against my palm while I reread passages I could quote from memory by now. Some of the details are hers. I know they are. Pieces of interviews conducted in Boston, notes from New York, and family history she asked about because she was trying to understand the difference between the company and the people carrying its name are scattered throughout the article.

Now those same details have been rearranged until they read like evidence. Secrecy becomes concealment. Discipline becomes control. Expansion becomes appetite. Every private piece of context has been sharpened into something accusatory.

I know what Sophie asked me, and I know how she listened. I know what the story was supposed to be, and this isn’t it. That should make the answer simple, but it doesn’t.

I take a drink and look back at the article. She’s credited, and her reporting is inside it. There’s no explanation for that fact sitting anywhere on my desk.

Maybe she gave them the notes because she was told to. Maybe she approved the direction. Maybe someone took the work away from her and turned it into something she never intended. I don’t know, and the uncertainty is worse than anger would be.

If I could decide she betrayed me, I could put the feeling somewhere useful. I could close the door, categorize the mistake, and move on. Instead, every memory of her pushes back against the conclusion. The woman I knew wouldn’t have looked me in the eye at Lake Como and then handed those conversations over to be gutted for spectacle.

At least, I don’t think she would.

It’s that small trace of doubt that keeps me sitting here.

I set the article down and reach for the smaller phone inside my desk drawer. I bought it years ago for travel and emergencies. It isn’t tied to the company system, routed through Blackwell servers, or sitting inside the communication channels Legal now monitors as though every sentence might eventually become evidence.

I’ve already tried once. Two nights ago, I sent an email from a personal account I barely use, and it came back undeliverable. At the time, I assumed the address had been disabled temporarily.

Tonight, I try the phone.

Her number is still saved. I stare at her name for several seconds before opening a message.

Julian: Sophie, I need to talk to you. I need to understand what happened. Please call me. Everything here is a mess, but I need to hear this from you.

I read it twice. It’s more exposed than I’d normally allow, but I don’t change it before pressing send.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the message fails.

I try again and get the same result.

I stare at the screen before switching back to the email account and pulling up the message from two days earlier.

Delivery failed. Address unavailable.