Page 100 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

“He simply doesn’t practice it very often.”

That makes me smile.

We turn down another corridor and climb a smaller staircase.

“If you need anything while you’re here, you call me directly,” Lucia says.

“Bath prepared, clothes pressed, meals brought upstairs, anything at all. If you’re tired this evening, we can bring dinner to you.”

“That’s incredibly kind.”

“It’s what we’re here for.”

She opens a set of double doors.

I stop.

The suite is enormous.

A king-sized bed sits beneath a tall upholstered headboard, dressed in white linen that looks impossibly soft. Beyond it, floor-to-ceiling windows open onto an uninterrupted view of the lake, framed by long cream curtains and heavier blackout drapes. A fireplace occupies one wall opposite a sitting area with a sofa and chaise, while French doors lead onto a private balcony.

Someone has placed fresh roses on a table beside a chilled bottle of champagne, fruit, cheese, and pastries.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say before I can stop myself.

Lucia smiles.

“The bathroom is through there.”

I walk far enough to see pale marble, a deep soaking tub beneath another window, and a glass shower large enough to qualify as its own room.

“This is my room?”

“Yes.”

“For three days?”

“Yes.”

I turn toward her.

“I’m going to have difficulty returning to normal life.”

“That happens.”

Lucia gives me her number and reminds me again to call if I need anything before leaving me alone. The second the door closes, I drop my handbag onto the chaise and walk straight toward the windows.

The lake fills almost the entire view. Boats move quietly in the distance, while sunlight shimmers against the water below the terrace. From here, the rest of the world feels very far away.

I turn toward the bed. Then I do something I would never admit in an interview. I kick off my shoes, throw myself backward across the mattress, and stretch my arms over the sheets. The bed gives beneath me like a cloud.

“Oh, this is ridiculous.”

I sweep my arms once across the duvet like a child making a snow angel, laugh at myself, then force myself upright before I become too comfortable to move.

I have less than an hour. I unpack quickly, freshen my makeup, run a brush through my hair, and replace my ballet flats with a pair of heels. The blue dress survives the journey well enough that I only need to smooth the fabric before collecting my notebook and laptop.

When I reach the main living room downstairs, a staff member is arranging a small tray of hors d’oeuvres beside two glasses of champagne.