Page 84 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

The penthouse is quiet when I arrive. I leave my jacket over a chair and loosen my tie as I cross toward the bedroom, where an open suitcase sits on the bench beneath the windows. My housekeeper has already laid out several shirts and trousers, along with the dark suits I’ll need for Milan, but I prefer to finish packing myself. It’s one of the few routines I’ve never delegated.

I fold a navy sweater into the case and reach for another shirt as my phone vibrates on the dresser.

For one irrational second, I expect Sophie’s name.

It’s Daniel.

Daniel: Final Milan confirmations are in your email. Estate manager is available tomorrow morning if you still want to speak with him personally.

I type back.

Julian: I do. Set it for 8:00.

Daniel replies almost immediately.

Daniel: Done.

I set the phone down and continue packing. The trip should feel familiar. Milan has been part of my schedule for years, and the estate on Lake Como has belonged to my family longer than I have been alive. I know the roads, the rooms, the staff, the shape of the lake from the western terrace when the sun starts to fall.

This time, I find myself imagining Sophie there.

I can already picture the way she’ll study everything before asking questions, pretending the surroundings don’t impress her while noticing every detail anyway. She’ll probably ask about the house before she’s even finished putting her bag down. She’ll want records, photographs, stories about my father, my grandfather, decisions made before either Adrian or I were old enough to understand what Blackwell would eventually become. The thought brings an unexpected ease with it. For the first time since Boston, I let myself anticipate seeing her without immediately trying to classify what that anticipation means.

At 8:00 the following morning, I take the call from the Lake Como estate manager from my office rather than leaving it to Daniel.

“The house will be ready before you arrive,” the estate manager says.

“The west guest suite has been opened, and the staff will have everything prepared.”

“Use the lake-facing suite for Ms. Callahan,” I reply.

There is a brief pause on the other end.

“The larger one?”

“Yes.”

“The east suite is usually used for guests.”

“I know.”

He does not question me further.

“I’ll make the change,” he says.

I turn toward the windows while he reviews the remaining preparations.

“The cellar is stocked as usual,” he continues.

“Is there anything specific you’d like brought up for the dinners?”

I think about Sophie choosing Bordeaux in Boston and the way she held the glass between her fingers while telling me about her father.

“Pull two bottles of the Saint-Émilion,” I say.

“The older vintage.”

“For the final evening?”