Page 44 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

“Still glad you came?” he asks.

I place my notebook on the table and meet his eyes.

“Ask me after the next set of questions,” I reply.

His mouth shifts into the beginning of a smile as he takes the chair across from me.

“Go ahead, Sophie,” Julian says.

“I’m listening.”

I settle into the chair and glance down at my notes, but the questions I prepared feel less rigid now. The tour has stripped away some of the distance between us, and Julian no longer looks like the man who sat across from me in Manhattan choosing every word before he spoke. Here, he is easier in his body, more immediate, and far more difficult to reduce to the role I expected him to play.

“I want to go back to something you said earlier,” I tell him. “You said a design proves itself when it fails.”

Julian rests one hand against the table. “Not when it fails,” he says. “When you understand why it failed.”

“That sounds less like engineering and more like character assessment.”

His eyes hold mine. “The principles aren’t always that different.”

I should move to the next question, but I don’t. The silence between us stretches without becoming uncomfortable, and the steadiness of his gaze makes me feel as though he is waiting for an answer I haven’t given.

“Is that how you judge people?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” Julian replies. “People are usually most honest when something stops going according to plan.”

“That assumes they have room to fail.”

His expression shifts slightly. “You don’t think they do?”

“I think some people get to call failure a lesson,” I say. “Other people call it the end of their career.”

Julian studies me more closely. “Which one were you?”

The question is quiet enough that I could dismiss it, but something in his tone keeps me from doing so. I glance toward the courtyard beyond the window, where sunlight falls across the concrete in broad white bands.

“The kind who couldn’t afford to find out,” I answer.

He does not interrupt or soften the moment with reassurance. He simply waits, and that restraint makes it easier to continue.

“I learned early that preparation closes certain doors before people can shut them in your face,” I say. “If I knew more than they expected, asked better questions, and made it impossible to dismiss me, then I could stay in the room.”

Julian’s gaze remains fixed on me. “Does that still feel necessary?”

“Yes,” I reply, then add, “Most days.”

The admission sits between us, more personal than anything I intended to offer. I lower my eyes to the page and turn it, although I am not ready for the next question.

“You make it look effortless,” Julian says.

A faint laugh escapes me. “That’s because effort is rarely impressive when people can see it.”

His mouth lifts slightly. “I disagree.”

When I look up again, his expression has lost the trace of amusement. The space between us feels narrower, though neither of us has moved. His attention stays on my face long enough that I become aware of my own breathing, the warmth beneath my collar, and the red lipstick I chose that morning with more deliberation than I want to admit.

I break the gaze first.