Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Sophie
The visitor office Blackwell has given me for the next few days sits three corridors away from the executive wing, far enough from Julian’s office that I can almost pretend the distance is useful.
I try my best. Grace has sent comments on my Boston notes, along with three questions she wants me to follow up on before Italy. I work through them one by one, adding references to the engineering interviews and flagging several points that need verification against the company archives.
For twenty minutes, my concentration holds, then my mind betrays me: The feeling of Julian’s hand at the back of my neck.
The weight of his body over mine. The feel of his mouth against my skin.
The girth of his cock, filling me entirely.
Heat moves through me so quickly that I stop typing.
I lean back in the chair and press my fingertips against my temple.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
The office remains stubbornly quiet. I pick up my coffee and take a long drink before returning to the screen.
I manage another page of notes before the memory shifts again, this time catching on the rough warmth of his chest beneath my palms and the sound of my name in his voice.
My thighs tighten involuntarily. I close my eyes for half a second, then force them open.
This is ridiculous.
I have spent years interviewing executives, politicians, founders, and men whose egos could barely fit through their own office doors.
I know how to separate a subject from a story.
I know how to work inside someone else’s world without becoming part of it.
Boston complicated that– but I’m not interested in examining exactly how much.
Suddenly, a notification appears in the corner of my screen.
BLACKWELL ALL-TEAM MEETING —
10:30 A.M.
— EXECUTIVE CONFERENCE ROOM
I check the time.
10:02.
I finish the paragraph in front of me, send Grace a short reply, and save my notes before closing the laptop.
By the time I reach the conference room, most of the seats are already filled.
Directors and senior staff cluster in small conversations while several people along the far wall balance coffee cups and tablets.
I choose a seat midway down the table where I can observe without looking as though I am trying to be noticed.
That distinction feels more important than usual.
At 10:29, Adrian walks in. He is speaking to Vivian as they enter, smiling at something she says before moving toward the head of the table. He catches my eye almost immediately and gives me an easy nod.
“Morning, Sophie,” Adrian says.
“Morning,” I reply.
Julian walks in behind him. My body reacts before I can stop it.
He is wearing dark trousers and a light blue button-down with the sleeves fastened at his wrists, no suit jacket, no tie.
The shirt fits close across his shoulders, and the sight of him sends a slow, unwelcome pulse through the center of me.
I lower my eyes to my notebook and uncap my pen.
Professional. That word is beginning to feel embarrassingly fragile.
Julian takes the seat at the far end of the table. When I look up again, his eyes are already on me. For one suspended second, neither of us moves. Then Adrian begins speaking.
“Let’s get started,” he says, looking around the table.
“I want department updates first, then we’ll move into Europe.”
The room settles. I take notes as the directors work through their reports.
Adrian controls most of the meeting with the easy confidence I have come to expect from him, moving people along when they wander and pulling clarification when something sounds too polished.
Julian speaks less often, but when he does, the conversation changes immediately.
“Are those numbers based on projected demand or actual commitments?” Julian asks one of the regional directors.
“Projected demand,” the director replies.
“Then don’t present them as revenue assumptions,” Julian says.
“They’re not the same thing.”
The director nods. “Understood.”
I write the exchange down even though I am not sure I will use it.
When I look up again, Julian is watching me.
His expression is unreadable. There is none of the warmth from the restaurant, none of the quiet intensity of the hotel room.
He looks composed and distant, the same man I met across a conference table weeks ago.
The change stings more than I expect. I look back at my notes before the feeling has time to settle.
For the rest of the meeting, I keep my attention on the speakers, though I remain aware of Julian in the room with the same irritating precision that made Boston impossible to ignore.
Every time he shifts in his chair, every time his voice cuts cleanly through the discussion, my attention moves toward him before I can stop it.
Twice, our eyes meet. The second time, he looks away first. Adrian closes the meeting just before noon.
“That’s enough damage for one morning,” he says, shutting his tablet.
“Anything urgent, take it directly to Daniel or me. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”
Chairs scrape against the floor as the room begins to clear. I gather my notebook quickly.
“Sophie.”
I turn. Adrian is standing a few feet away.
“You surviving us?” he asks.
“So far.”
“That sounded reluctant.”
“I’m preserving my editorial independence.”
Adrian grins. “Good answer.”
Julian remains near the far end of the room speaking with Vivian. I feel his presence without looking directly at him.
“I’ll see you later,” Adrian says.
“You will.”
I leave before I can give myself a reason to stay. Back in the visitor office, another calendar notification waits on my screen.
1:00 P.M. — JULIAN BLACKWELL — FOLLOW-UP / ARCHIVES
My stomach tightens. I spend the next hour pretending the meeting is no different from any other interview. At 12:58, I am standing outside Julian’s office as Daniel looks up from his desk.
“He’s expecting you,” he says.
“Thank you.”
I knock once before entering. Julian is standing near the windows with a folder in one hand. He turns when I walk in, and whatever distance he carried into the conference room follows him here.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
His voice is even. I take the chair across from his desk and set my notebook in my lap. The room smells faintly of coffee, paper, and the clean trace of his aftershave. My body recognizes the scent immediately and a shiver runs across my skin before I can suppress it.
Julian sits across from me.
“How has the archive preparation been going?” he asks.
“Good. I have a few gaps I want to fill around the early expansion years and some of the internal decisions that never made it into the public filings.”
“What kind of decisions?”
“Mostly the ones around infrastructure ownership,” I say.
“The public version makes it look almost inevitable, which usually means it wasn’t.”
A faint shift touches his mouth.
“You’re right.”
“I assumed I was.”
“You usually do.”
The dry edge in his tone feels more familiar than the coldness from earlier.
I look down at my notes.
“I also want to compare some of the early board records against the engineering timelines,” I tell him.
“Daniel said someone from the archive team would take me downstairs.”
“I’ll take you.”
I look up.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you’d be busy.”
“I cleared the afternoon.”
That surprises me more than it should.
“You cleared your afternoon to show me files?”
Julian leans back slightly.
“If you’d rather have someone else take you—”
“That’s not what I said.”
His eyes meet mine.
“No?”
“No.”
The room goes quiet for a moment.
I adjust my grip on the notebook.
“I just didn’t expect you to volunteer.”
“I know where the records are.”
“I’m sure several other people do too.”
“They do.”
“Then why you?”
Julian’s gaze holds mine a second longer than necessary.
“Because I said I would.”
The answer is simple, but something underneath it shifts the air between us.
I stand before I can examine it too closely.
“All right,” I say. “Lead the way.”
Julian picks up the folder from his desk and walks toward the door. When he passes close beside me, his sleeve brushes my arm. The contact lasts less than a second, but my pulse reacts anyway. He opens the door and glances back.
“Coming?”
“I’m right behind you.”
I follow him into the corridor, telling myself that the archives are exactly what I came here to see.
The archives are two floors below the executive offices, behind a secured glass door that Julian opens with his badge.
The temperature drops slightly as soon as we step inside, and the polished quiet of the corporate floors gives way to something more functional.
Rows of compact shelving stretch beneath low lights, interrupted by worktables, labeled storage boxes, and locked cabinets containing older company records.
“This is more organized than I expected,” I say.
Julian glances at me. “You expected boxes in a basement?”
“I expected at least one dusty file cabinet for atmosphere.”
“You’re going to be disappointed.”
“I’ll recover.”
His mouth shifts with the beginning of a smile, and some of the stiffness between us eases. He leads me toward a long table where several archive boxes have already been pulled and labeled. I set down my notebook while Julian opens the first one and begins sorting through folders.
Nearly one hour later, we have file drawers and articles spread across different tables, as Julian slides another box next to me.
“These cover the early expansion years,” he says.
“Board minutes, acquisition memos, engineering projections, some internal correspondence.”
I reach for one of the folders just as he pulls out a photograph tucked between two documents. The image is old enough that the colors have faded slightly. Richard Blackwell stands in front of a much smaller office building with two boys beside him, both thin and serious in matching navy jackets.
I look at Julian, then back at the photograph.
“You and Adrian?”
Julian takes the picture from my hand and studies it.