Page 55 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

“Not as much as we used to be. She’s in California. She’s annoying, intrusive, judgmental, and would probably donate a kidney before I could finish asking.”

“That sounds close.”

“It is in theory.” I take a sip of wine.

“She’s an ER nurse, so she also thinks everyone else’s work emergencies are imaginary.”

“She may have a point.”

“I’ll make sure she knows you agree with her.”

Julian’s expression warms.

“I already regret taking sides.”

The conversation moves easily, and that alone makes me wary. I am used to interviews. I am even used to dinners that begin as interviews and loosen after the wine arrives. This feels different because Julian is not performing curiosity to make himself seem personable. When he asks something, he listens to the entire answer.

“What about your father?” he asks after I mention my mother again.

My fingers still against the stem of my glass.

There is nothing extraordinary about the question. He has no reason to know the terrain underneath it.

“He left,” I say.

Julian’s expression changes, but he does not interrupt. I look down at the wine for a moment.

“I was six.”

The admission feels strangely exposed despite its simplicity. Most people who know me now know my mother raised us, but I rarely explain why. The details belong to childhood, and I learned a long time ago that repeating them doesn’t alter them.

“He just left?” Julian asks quietly.

“Eventually.” I run my thumb against the base of the glass.

“There were arguments first. A lot of conversations behind closed doors that children supposedly don’t hear. Then one weekend he packed a suitcase and told me he was going away for a little while.”

Julian remains still.

“He came back twice,” I continue.

“Once for a birthday and once around Christmas. After that, there were phone calls. Then fewer phone calls. Eventually my mother stopped pretending she knew when we would hear from him.”

“How old was Emma?”

“Three.”

Julian’s jaw shifts slightly. “That’s young.”

“It was probably easier for her in some ways. She barely remembered what it was like before. I did.”

The server arrives with our meals, creating a natural pause. I am grateful for the interruption until the plates are settled and the server leaves, because Julian still does not rush to fill the quiet.

Most people do. They say they are sorry. They explain that children are resilient. They offer some variation of how everything happens for a reason, as though abandonment becomes noble if you wrap it in enough perspective.

Julian simply looks at me.

“That must have changed the way you trusted people,” he says.