Page 150 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

Early the following morning, my phone vibrates against the nightstand before I am fully awake, and for one disoriented second, I think it is Julian. I reach for it too quickly, only to find the screen crowded with alerts, emails, and messages instead of his name. One headline sits above everything else.

THE BLACKWELL DYNASTY: LEGACY OR LIES?

I stare at it before tapping the notification. The article opens beneath a photograph of Julian and Adrian leaving Blackwell headquarters behind a wall of cameras, and the first paragraphs are worse than the headline. Pieces of family history sit beside references to the antitrust investigation, acquisition strategy, internal culture, executive access, and years of expansion. My stomach turns before I even reach the byline.

I scroll upward and find the name beneath the headline.

By Kate Hobbes.

For several seconds, I cannot breathe properly. Kate. I keep reading, and the structure becomes unmistakable almost immediately. My interviews, my research, and my notes from Boston, New York, and the early background sessions have been stripped of the context in which I gathered them and stitched into a story built around the scandal. Details that were supposed to explain the Blackwell family now read like evidence of secrecy, ambition, and institutional control.

Grace gave her my work.

My phone vibrates again with another alert carrying the same story, followed by another one seconds later. I throw the covers back and barely make it to the bathroom before I vomit. When I straighten over the sink, my hands are shaking against the marble, and Julian is the only person I can think about.

He is going to see this article. He is going to recognize details that came from conversations with me, and he is going to believe I handed them over willingly. Worse, my name may be attached somewhere beneath it, giving him every reason to think I participated.

I rinse my mouth, grab my phone, and call him. The line rings once before switching to a busy signal. I try again and get the same response.

“Come on, Julian,” I whisper as I call a third time, but nothing changes.

Panic crawls higher into my chest. I find the main number for Blackwell headquarters and call directly, gripping the phone as I wait through several rings.

“Blackwell Technologies. How may I direct your call?” the receptionist asks.

“This is Sophie Callahan. I need to speak with Julian Blackwell,” I say.

There is a brief pause before the receptionist responds.

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“It’s personal,” I tell her.

“Please tell him Sophie Callahan is calling.”

There is a blatant pause on the other end of the line.

“One moment,” the receptionist says very slowly, as if my name has set off alarms.

I grip the phone hard enough that my fingers ache while I wait. The line clicks, and then Daniel’s voice comes through.

“Daniel speaking.”

Relief hits me first.

“Daniel, thank God. I need to speak to Julian.”

His tone changes immediately.

“Ms. Callahan, all press and media inquiries are being handled through our public relations division.”

I blink, momentarily stunned.

“This isn’t a press inquiry.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not able to put you through,” Daniel says.

“Daniel, you know who I am.”