Page 166 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

“It can still work. It just might not look the way you thought it would.”

Theo thinks about that for another moment before giving a small nod.

“Okay.”

I lean down and kiss his forehead. “Okay.”

“Love you, Mom.”

“I love you too.”

I reach for the lamp.

“Door open a little,” Theo says.

“I know.”

I switch off the light and leave the door cracked the same few inches I leave it every night.

Twenty minutes later, I pass his room on my way downstairs and stop when I realize he is asleep. I step inside quietly. The glow from the hallway reaches just far enough to catch his face against the pillow. His lashes rest against his cheeks, and his dark hair has fallen across his forehead again.

I brush it back gently.

There are days when I see mostly myself in him. The shape of his smile. The stubborn set of his mouth when he has decided he is right. The way he curls onto his side when he sleeps. Tonight, the resemblance is harder to ignore; the dark hair. The blue eyes hidden now beneath closed lids. The strong little line beginning to form through his features as he gets older.

You have your father’s face.

The thought comes without warning, but it is not unfamiliar. I have never lied to myself about where Theo comes from. I have simply learned how to live with Julian Blackwell existing somewhere beyond the boundaries of this house, while Theo grows safely inside them.

I smooth the blanket once more, then leave the room and pull the door back to its usual narrow opening.

***

At 9:27 the next morning, I walk into the editorial conference room with coffee in one hand and my notebook tucked under the other arm.

My editor, Claire Donovan, is already seated at the table with our executive features director, Mark Feldman, and a thick black briefing packet between them. That alone tells me this is bigger than a routine profile. Claire usually handles assignments from her office, often while answering email and eating something she forgot she ordered.

She gestures toward the chair across from her.

“Close the door, Sophie.”

I do, then take my seat.

“You’re making this sound ominous.”

“It isn’t ominous,” Claire says.

“It’s significant.”

Mark slides the packet toward me. I glance at the cover, and the name at the top stops me before I touch it.

BLACKWELL TECHNOLOGIES

For a second, the room seems quieter than it is.

Claire watches my face carefully.

“We were selected for the authorized retrospective.”