Page 75 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

This is ridiculous.

I have spent years interviewing executives, politicians, founders, and men whose egos could barely fit through their own office doors. I know how to separate a subject from a story. I know how to work inside someone else’s world without becoming part of it. Boston complicated that– but I’m not interested in examining exactly how much.

Suddenly, a notification appears in the corner of my screen.

BLACKWELL ALL-TEAM MEETING —

10:30 A.M.

— EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM

I check the time.

10:02.

I finish the paragraph in front of me, send Grace a short reply, and save my notes before closing the laptop.

By the time I reach the conference room, most of the seats are already filled. Directors and senior staff cluster in small conversations while several people along the far wall balance coffee cups and tablets. I choose a seat midway down the table where I can observe without looking as though I am trying to be noticed. That distinction feels more important than usual.

At 10:29, Adrian walks in. He is speaking to Vivian as they enter, smiling at something she says before moving toward the head of the table. He catches my eye almost immediately and gives me an easy nod.

“Morning, Sophie,” Adrian says.

“Morning,” I reply.

Julian walks in behind him. My body reacts before I can stop it. He is wearing dark trousers and a light blue button-down with the sleeves fastened at his wrists, no suit jacket, no tie. The shirt fits close across his shoulders, and the sight of him sends a slow, unwelcome pulse through the center of me.

I lower my eyes to my notebook and uncap my pen.

Professional. That word is beginning to feel embarrassingly fragile.

Julian takes the seat at the far end of the table. When I look up again, his eyes are already on me. For one suspended second, neither of us moves. Then Adrian begins speaking.

“Let’s get started,” he says, looking around the table.

“I want department updates first, then we’ll move into Europe.”

The room settles. I take notes as the directors work through their reports. Adrian controls most of the meeting with the easy confidence I have come to expect from him, moving people along when they wander and pulling clarification when something sounds too polished. Julian speaks less often, but when he does, the conversation changes immediately.

“Are those numbers based on projected demand or actual commitments?” Julian asks one of the regional directors.

“Projected demand,” the director replies.

“Then don’t present them as revenue assumptions,” Julian says.

“They’re not the same thing.”

The director nods. “Understood.”

I write the exchange down even though I am not sure I will use it. When I look up again, Julian is watching me. His expression is unreadable. There is none of the warmth from the restaurant, none of the quiet intensity of the hotel room. He looks composed and distant, the same man I met across a conference table weeks ago. The change stings more than I expect. I look back at my notes before the feeling has time to settle.

For the rest of the meeting, I keep my attention on the speakers, though I remain aware of Julian in the room with the same irritating precision that made Boston impossible to ignore. Every time he shifts in his chair, every time his voice cuts cleanly through the discussion, my attention moves toward him before I can stop it.

Twice, our eyes meet. The second time, he looks away first. Adrian closes the meeting just before noon.

“That’s enough damage for one morning,” he says, shutting his tablet.

“Anything urgent, take it directly to Daniel or me. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”