Page 40 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

"At some point you've got to figure out what happens after work."

"I have hobbies," I say.

"You read annual reports for fun," he says.

"I also sail," I say.

"Twice a year," he says.

"I ski," I say.

"You own skis," he says.

I narrow my eyes.

"You've been talking to Adrian," I say.

"We compare notes," he says.

"Dangerous," I say.

"For you, maybe," he says.

He smiles warmly.

"I'm happy," he says.

"I can see that," I say.

"I want that for you too," he says.

I look down into my glass. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence isn't uncomfortable. It never has been. Some friendships don't require conversation every second.

Steve finally breaks it.

"You deserve more than board meetings, Julian," he says.

I don't answer immediately. Instead, I look out through the tall windows toward the lights stretching across Manhattan, wondering when exactly work stopped being something I did and quietly became the framework around which everything else was expected to fit.

Chapter Six

Sophie

The flight from to Boston is short enough that I barely settle into my seat before the captain announces our descent. I spend most of it with Grace’s notes open on my tablet, rereading questions I already know well enough to recite from memory. The repetition should calm me. Instead, I find myself pausing on Julian Blackwell’s name every time it appears, as though the letters carry more weight than the rest of the page.

By the time the car Blackwell Technologies arranged pulls away from Logan Airport, dusk has settled over the city. The harbor flashes between buildings in strips of dark blue, and the last of the evening light glints against glass towers before disappearing behind rows of brick. The drive is smooth and efficient, with none of the delays I expected, and the driver speaks only long enough to confirm the hotel and ask whether the temperature is comfortable.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” I tell him, shifting my tablet onto my lap.

He nods and returns his attention to the road while I watch Boston pass beyond the window. Twenty minutes later, the hotel rises behind a limestone façade in Back Bay, elegant without needing to announce itself. A bellman opens the car door before I can reach for the handle, and another member of staff retrieves my suitcase from the trunk while addressing me by name. Inside, the lobby glows beneath tiered chandeliers and polished brass sconces. Fresh flowers spill from a wide marble table at the center of the room, and the air carries a faint blend of citrus, white tea, and expensive restraint.

“Welcome, Ms. Callahan,” the woman at the front desk says as I approach.

“Your suite is ready. Blackwell Technologies has taken care of the arrangements.”

“Of course they have,” I say before I can stop myself.

The woman’s professional smile doesn’t shift.