Page 9 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

"I'm Sophie Callahan. I have a 10:00 AM appointment with Adrian Blackwell."

He glances at his monitor, nods once, and immediately stands.

"Of course, Ms. Callahan. We've been expecting you."

Somehow, hearing those words makes the assignment feel even more real. He hands me a sleek visitor badge embossed with nothing more than my name and the Blackwell logo.

"If you'll place your bag on the scanner for me."

I comply without hesitation, setting my leather satchel on the conveyor belt before walking through the security archway. The process is remarkably efficient—professional without feeling invasive. Within moments, my bag is returned, and the gentleman gestures toward a seating area tucked beneath an enormous living wall filled with lush greenery.

"If you wouldn't mind waiting just a moment, someone will be down to escort you upstairs."

"Thank you."

I settle into one of the armchairs, grateful for the brief pause. It's rare that I feel the need to collect myself before an interview, but this isn't an ordinary assignment. My notebook rests inside my satchel, already filled with pages of research and carefully organized questions, yet I resist the urge to pull it out. Instead, I watch the rhythm of the lobby.

There's something fascinating about observing people when they don't realize they're being observed. An executive strides across the floor while quietly reviewing figures on a tablet. Two young employees laugh about something as they step off the elevator before immediately composing themselves when they notice a senior vice president approaching. A courier wheels several large cases toward another set of elevators reserved for internal deliveries.

Nothing appears staged.

Everything simply works.

I make a mental note of that.

Culture reveals itself long before anyone begins talking about it.

"Ms. Callahan?"

I look up to find a woman in her early thirties approaching with an easy smile. She's impeccably dressed in a forest-green sheath dress beneath a cream blazer, her dark hair twisted neatly into a low chignon.

"I'm Emily Foster," she says, extending her hand.

"Mr. Blackwell asked me to bring you upstairs."

"It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine. We've all been looking forward to having you here."

There's that phrase again.

We've been expecting you.

It shouldn't surprise me. Grace and Blackwell's communications team have spent weeks coordinating today's meeting. Still, hearing it repeated leaves me wondering just how much preparation has gone into my arrival.

Emily presses the elevator call button, and within seconds, the doors slide open.

As we step inside, she selects one of the upper floors before turning toward me with a relaxed smile.

"Was your drive into the city all right?"

"It was surprisingly smooth."

She laughs.

"That's practically a miracle."

"I was thinking the same thing."