Page 41 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

“You’ll find your itinerary and transportation details in the room. Breakfast may be ordered at any time, and we’ve noted your departure schedule for tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, smoothing over my own remark with a smile. “I appreciate it.”

She hands me a key card tucked inside a cream envelope embossed with the hotel’s crest. A staff member escorts me to the elevator, and I follow him through the quiet corridor once we reach the upper floor. When he opens the door to my suite, I have to make a conscious effort not to react.

The living room is larger than my entire apartment. Tall windows overlook the city, framed by heavy ivory drapes that have been pulled back to reveal rooftops, church spires, and a narrow ribbon of traffic below. A cream sofa faces a marble fireplace, though the July evening doesn’t require it. A lacquered desk sits near the windows with bottled water, a silver tray of fruit, and a leather folder bearing the Blackwell Technologies logo.

My suitcase is placed on a stand in the bedroom while the staff member explains the lighting controls, the minibar, and the room service menu. I thank him, tip him, and wait until the door closes before letting out the breath I’ve been holding.

The silence that follows is almost theatrical.

I set my handbag on the desk and open the leather folder. Inside, I find tomorrow’s schedule, the address of the Boston research facility, the name and number of the chauffeur, and a handwritten card from Daniel confirming that the driver will arrive at 9:15 am. Everything is precise, considered, and far more generous than necessary.

That thought should make me uneasy because hospitality can be its own form of influence. Companies spend money to create comfort, and comfort has a way of softening people before they realize it. I know that better than most.

Still, I run my fingers over the thick paper before setting it aside.

The bedroom is just as polished as the rest of the suite, with crisp white linens, dark wood, and a upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. My clothes are still folded inside my suitcase, but I leave them there for now and return to the desk. The interview matters more than unpacking.

I open my laptop, spread Grace’s notes beside it, and pull up the files I’ve collected over the past week. I read through the questions again, moving from the company’s early expansion into the current engineering division and then toward Julian’s role in the business. Grace has marked several points where she wants me to push harder, especially if he retreats behind prepared language. I underline one of her comments, though I don’t need the reminder.

Don’t let him answer as the company.

The note sits beneath my hand while I stare at it. That was the challenge when we first met. Julian answered precisely, but precision isn’t the same as openness. He gave me enough to understand that he was intelligent, disciplined, and accustomed to being listened to, yet almost nothing that felt unguarded. Even his silences seemed chosen.

I tell myself that tomorrow will be different because the environment will be different. He’ll be in Boston, inside the engineering division he helped build, surrounded by the people and work that existed before the anniversary campaign made him part of my assignment. The setting may loosen something that a conference room in Manhattan could not.

The thought should interest me only as a journalist.

I look away from the screen and reach for the bottle of water. My nerves have been gathering quietly since the car left the airport, tightening through my shoulders and settling low in my stomach. I stand, cross the suite, and crack one of the windows open as far as the mechanism allows. Cooler air slips inside, carrying the distant noise of traffic and the faint hum of the city below.

At 9:15, I close the laptop and order dinner from room service. I close the folder before the thought can settle too deeply. After dinner arrives and I eat, I then shower, wash away the stale feeling of travel, and set the alarm for 6:30 am. I place my phone on the nightstand, check the interview time once more, and slide beneath the sheets.

The mattress is too soft, the room too quiet, and my mind too alert. I close my eyes anyway and breathe slowly until the questions begin to lose their sharp edges.

The alarm wakes me at 6:30, though I’ve already been staring at the ceiling for several minutes. Boston is still pale beyond the windows, the buildings softened by early light and a thin veil of summer haze. I order coffee, fruit, and toast from room service, then eat only enough to keep my stomach from turning empty before I carry the tray away from the window and begin getting ready.

I dress in the black skirt, cream satin blouse, and matching blazer I laid out the night before. The outfit settles me in a way the room does not. I fasten the pearls at my throat, smooth the blouse beneath the lapels, and spend more time than usual on my makeup. The final touch is a bold red lipstick that sharpens the rest of my face and makes me look more certain than I feel.

My phone vibrates just as I slide it into my handbag.

Good morning, Ms. Callahan. Your car is waiting at the main entrance.

I check my reflection once more before leaving the suite.

The driver greets me by name and opens the rear door. I settle into the cool leather seat, place my notes beside me, and watch Back Bay give way to wider roads and low industrial buildings as we move toward the research facility. The drive is not long, but my nerves stretch every minute of it. I review my opening questions twice, then close the folder when I realize I am no longer reading the words.

The facility sits behind a clean steel-and-glass façade with the Blackwell name set discreetly near the entrance. There are no dramatic signs or public-facing displays, only secure gates, a broad courtyard, and the controlled movement of people who know exactly where they are going.

A woman in a navy suit is waiting inside the lobby.

“Ms. Callahan, I’m Dr. Lena Park, director of applied systems,” she says as she extends her hand.

“Welcome to Boston.”

“Thank you,” I reply, returning her handshake.

“It’s good to be here.”