Page 111 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

I finish the wine in my glass.

Julian notices that too.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“The wine?”

“Yes.”

“I do.”

He lifts his own glass. “Good.”

I watch him for a moment.

“You picked this.”

Julian’s mouth shifts faintly.

“I may have made a suggestion.”

“A suggestion.”

“That’s usually how these things work.”

“You remembered what I drank.”

His eyes settle on mine again.

“Yes.”

The answer is simple enough to make my pulse jump. I look down at the empty glass before he can see too much in my face. Julian reaches for the bottle and pours a little more into both glasses.

“Another?” he asks.

“You already poured it.”

“I was being polite.”

“That would’ve been more effective before the pouring.”

His smile deepens. I lift the glass and take a slow sip, aware of him watching me over the rim of his own. The wine has loosened something between us, but neither of us is drunk. If anything, I feel more conscious of him now than I did when dinner began. Every held glance lasts a fraction too long. Every pause carries more than the words around it.

After dinner, Julian takes my glass from the table and nods toward the corridor.

“Come with me.”

I lift an eyebrow.

“That sounded commanding.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

“That makes it worse.”

His mouth curves as he starts walking, and I follow him through a quieter part of the house, down a wide stone staircase that leads beneath the main level. The temperature drops gradually, the air cooler and drier as we descend.

At the bottom, Julian opens a heavy wooden door. The wine cellar beyond it is nothing like the cramped brick rooms I have seen in restaurants. It stretches beneath a series of low arches, climate-controlled and softly lit, with dark wood shelving lining the walls from floor to ceiling. Hundreds of bottles rest in precise rows, divided by region and vintage. A long tasting table sits beneath pendant lights in the center of the room, with decanters, crystal glasses, and polished tools arranged at one end.