Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Julian
By Tuesday morning, I have turned a routine systems integration issue into a problem large enough to occupy half my executive team.
The discrepancy originated in a quarterly migration report from the cloud infrastructure division.
A vendor had missed an internal benchmark by less than three percent, a deviation that would normally be corrected by the division director before the report ever reached my desk.
Instead, I have spent the better part of two hours reviewing deployment schedules, regional redundancies, and performance projections that three people beneath me are perfectly capable of handling without supervision.
No one questions why I am involved. That is one advantage of being Julian Blackwell. If I decide something requires my attention, people assume I have seen a risk they have not.
At 10:17, I stand at the end of the conference table while the infrastructure director walks through a remediation plan projected across the screen.
“We’ve already isolated the affected nodes,” Martin says.
“There’s been no client impact, and the European team can complete the adjustments before Friday.”
“How confident are you in the Friday deadline?” I ask.
“Ninety-eight percent.”
“Why not one hundred?”
Martin pauses. “Because I try not to lie to you.”
A few people around the table smile.
Normally, I would too.
“Build in another twelve hours,” I tell him.
“I don’t want the correction rushed because someone promised Friday.”
Martin nods. “Done.”
Vivian Cross closes the folder in front of her. “Then unless Legal has suddenly developed an interest in server latency, I think my contribution here is complete.”
“You never know,” I reply.
“I do, actually.”
She stands, collecting her notes, and several of the others follow her lead. Martin remains behind long enough to confirm that I want the revised projection sent directly to me.
“Yes,” I tell him.
He hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Martin.”
He gives me the reluctant expression of a man deciding whether twelve years of employment entitle him to honesty.
“You usually don’t want these.”
“These what?”
“The revised projections. Not at this stage.”
He is right.
“I want them this time.”
“All right.”
He leaves without pressing further.
When the door closes, I remain beside the conference table and look at the abandoned presentation still glowing against the wall.
Three percent.
No client impact.
No material exposure.
I have spent an entire morning solving a problem that was already solved before I arrived.
I pick up my tablet and return to my office.
Boston ended two days ago. Yet that fact has been remarkably useless.
I have treated the intervening hours as though enough work might alter what happened there.
Meetings began earlier. Calls ran later.
I reviewed reports that did not require my review and answered emails that Daniel would usually filter before they reached me.
None of it has prevented Sophie from appearing without warning in the spaces between one thought and the next.
I sit behind my desk and open the revised infrastructure report. For several pages, numbers cooperate with me. Then one sentence loses its meaning halfway through.
Her hair is wrapped around my fist.
The image arrives so cleanly that my hand stills against the page. Another follows before I can shut it down: Sophie beneath me, her face flushed, blue eyes fixed on mine as the composure she wears so easily everywhere else disappears.
Heat pulls low through my body, and my cock twitches in my pants. I lean back and close my eyes for a second.
“Jesus Christ.”
The empty office offers no response. I open the report again. There is no regret attached to the memory. That would be easier. Regret can be categorized. It can be examined, corrected, and avoided the next time. But I would do it again—and therein lies the problem.
I remember waking before dawn in her hotel room and knowing, with a clarity I did not appreciate, that leaving before the morning became anything else was the safest decision available to me.
Sophie is writing about my family. I am giving her access no journalist has had in years.
She has a career built on independence, and I have a surname capable of turning an ordinary mistake into a public spectacle.
Those facts were true before I kissed her. They were true while I carried her toward the bed. They were still true when I woke beside her and wanted, with an intensity that unsettled me, to stay there.
I look down at the report again. My phone sits beside it. There has been no message from Sophie, but I haven’t sent any either.
We will see each other soon enough. Her remaining New York interviews are already on the schedule, followed by Italy. The assignment has structure. There are dates, locations, interviews, people responsible for moving both of us from one place to the next.
Structure is useful.
It gives everything a name that requires no further examination.
A knock sounds against the open door, and Daniel steps inside carrying another folder.
“The revised Singapore briefing,” he says.
“Leave it.”
Daniel places it on the corner of my desk, then glances at the report in front of me.
“How did the infrastructure meeting go?”
“Fine.”
“Was there a larger issue?”
“No.”
His gaze lifts to mine. Daniel is too professional to ask why I spent two hours attending a meeting about a problem that did not require me. I am equally uninterested in explaining it.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“The Zurich call moved to 3:30. I also cleared tomorrow morning for the strategy review.”
“Good.”
Daniel nods and turns toward the door.
“Daniel.”
He stops.
“When is Callahan back in the office?”
The question is out before I can decide whether I need the answer. Daniel checks the tablet in his hand.
“Tomorrow. Her first archive session is scheduled for 1:00.”
“I thought that was Thursday.”
“No. It was moved up at Ms. Callahan’s request. She has another commitment Thursday afternoon.”
I keep my expression neutral.
“Fine.”
“Do you want me to adjust anything?”
“No.”
Daniel waits half a beat, then nods.
“All right.”
He leaves and I return to the infrastructure report. I read the same paragraph twice before forcing myself to continue.
Adrian appears in my doorway just after 4:00, loosening the knot of his tie as he walks in without waiting to be invited.
“I heard you spent half the morning interrogating infrastructure over a three-percent variance,” he says.
I keep my eyes on the report in front of me.
“It needed attention.”
“It needed Martin.”
“He had it.”
“Then why did he also have you?”
I turn a page. “Because I wanted to review it.”
Adrian drops into the chair across from my desk and studies me for a moment.
“How was Boston?” he asks.
“Productive.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be exciting.”
“I didn’t ask if it was.”
I look up.
Adrian’s mouth curves.
“The lab?” he asks. “Everything go well?”
“Yes.”
“And the interview?”
“Yes.”
“With Sophie?”
“Yes.”
He nods slowly. “You’re really selling it.”
“There’s nothing to sell.”
“So the tour went well?”
“It went well.”
“Productive?”
“Very.”
Adrian leans back and folds his arms. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“The fact that you’ve said ‘productive’ twice and somehow made it sound like a threat.”
I set the report down.
“Do you have an actual reason for being here?”
“I did,” Adrian says. “Then I saw your face.”
“My face is fine.”
“Your face looks like you’re personally offended by a server report.”
“There was a variance.”
“There was a rounding error.”
“It wasn’t a rounding error.”
“Julian.”
“What?”
Adrian laughs under his breath.
“You’ve been back for two days, and somehow you’ve turned routine operations into a hostage situation.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding from anything.”
Adrian’s expression shifts just enough for the humor to sharpen.
“No?” he asks.
“No.”
“So Sophie’s coming back tomorrow and you’re completely normal about it.”
I hold his gaze.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
I reach for the report again. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I’m enjoying watching you pretend you don’t know what’s happening.”
“And what exactly do you think is happening?”
Adrian pauses, then gives me the kind of look only a twin can manage without saying much at all.
“I think something happened in Boston,” he says.
My expression doesn’t change.
Adrian’s smile widens.
“That’s not a denial.”
“It’s also none of your business.”
“There it is.”
I exhale and lean back in my chair.
“You came in here to ask about a trip.”
“I did.”
“You’ve asked.”
“And you’ve answered like someone under oath.”
“I gave you the facts.”
“You gave me absolutely nothing.”
“That was intentional.”
Adrian laughs once and gets to his feet.
“Fine. Keep your secrets.”
“I intend to.”
He reaches the door, then glances back at me.
“You know, for someone who’s supposedly unaffected, you’ve been unusually interested in work that doesn’t require you.”
I say nothing.
Adrian nods toward the report on my desk.
“Try not to bankrupt the company solving problems it doesn’t have.”
“Get out.”
He grins. “Gladly.”
The door closes behind him, and the office settles back into silence. I look down at the same page I have been reading for the last ten minutes. For the first time all afternoon, the numbers refuse to hold my attention.
Daniel returns the following morning with the Italy itinerary already organized into a leather folio and mirrored on his tablet.
He takes the chair across from my desk and begins with the flights, moving through the schedule with the efficiency of someone who knows I will interrupt if anything sounds unnecessary.
“You’re booked out of New York Monday evening,” Daniel says.
“The car will meet you at Malpensa Tuesday morning and take you directly to the hotel. You have two days in Milan, including the manufacturing site, the European strategy office, and dinner with the regional leadership team Tuesday night.”
I scan the first page while he continues.
“Ms. Callahan arrives Wednesday morning,” Daniel says. “She’ll be staying at the same hotel. Separate suite, same floor. Her car service is confirmed, and she’ll have full access to the scheduled site visits and interviews.”
My eyes stop on the hotel name for half a second before moving down the page.
“What about security clearance?”
“Already handled.”
“And the client dinner?”
“She’s included.”
“Good.”
Daniel scrolls to the next section.
“She’ll also be back here this afternoon for the archive review.”
“I know.”
“I had planned to assign either Colin or one of the senior analysts to escort her downstairs,” Daniel says.
“They know the archive system better than most of the directors.”
“I’ll take her.”
Daniel looks up.
The pause is slight, but I catch it.
“You?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I can have someone meet you there if you want support.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Daniel studies me for a moment, then returns to the tablet.
“All right.”
“It’s no problem,” I add.
The explanation is unnecessary, and I know it as soon as I say it.
Daniel, wisely, lets it pass.
“I’ll clear your schedule from 1:00 through 3:00,” he says.
“Clear the entire afternoon.”
His eyes lift again.
“The archive session is only scheduled for ninety minutes.”
“I know.”
Daniel gives a small nod.
“I’ll move the remaining meetings.”
He finishes the last few details, confirms the car service and hotel arrangements once more, then leaves the folio on my desk before stepping out.
I wait until the door closes before opening the itinerary again. I read the page once, then again, then twice more, as though some part of the schedule will change if I stare at it long enough. I reach for my phone and call Daniel before he makes it back to his office.
“Yes?” he answers.
“Update the itinerary.”
There is a brief pause.
“What do you want changed?”
“After Milan, the final interview moves to Lake Como.”
Daniel is quiet for a second.
“At the estate?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Three days.”
I lean back in my chair and look at the itinerary still open in front of me.
“Contact the estate manager and tell him to prepare everything,” I say.
“Guest suite, transportation, staff, the usual.”
“And Ms. Callahan?”
“She’ll come with me.”
Daniel does not comment.
“I’ll update the schedule and send the revised version to both of you,” he says.
“Do that.”
I end the call and set the phone beside the folio. The decision is practical. The estate gives her access to the family history, the private archives, and a part of Blackwell that no conference room in Manhattan can explain. That’s the reason.
I look down at the page again. Three days on Lake Como suddenly feels like a very long time.