Chapter 11 #2
“I was twelve.”
“You both look thrilled.”
“We were told to stand still.”
“That explains Adrian. You look like you were reviewing quarterly earnings.”
He gives me a dry look.
“I was twelve.”
“I’m aware.”
A quiet laugh escapes him before he sets the photograph on the table.
“This was before the company became what it is now?” I ask.
“Before most of it.”
I glance down at Richard’s younger face in the photograph.
“Did you always know you’d end up here?”
Julian rests one hand against the edge of the table.
“No.”
The answer comes quickly enough to surprise me.
“What did you think you’d do?”
“Engineering.”
“Just engineering?”
“Yes.”
“No boardrooms?”
“Not by choice.”
I turn toward him.
“So if the Blackwell name wasn’t attached to you, you would’ve built things and let someone else run the company.”
“That was the idea.”
There is no bitterness in his tone, but there is something more complicated beneath it.
“What changed?” I ask.
“My father needed me.”
The answer is simple, and I understand immediately that there is more behind it than he intends to explain.
I look back at the photograph.
“That sounds like inheritance without anyone actually saying the word.”
Julian’s gaze settles on me.
“Most inheritance works that way.”
The conversation shifts before I can stop it.
“What about you?” he asks.
“If no one expected anything from you?”
I smile faintly. “That’s harder.”
“You ask harder questions than that every day.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because they’re about other people.”
Julian waits.
I look down at the folders in front of me, then run my fingers along the edge of one.
“I think I would still write,” I say.
“But maybe not the same way.”
“What way?”
“Less like I had something to prove.”
The words leave me before I can reconsider them.
Julian’s expression changes.
“To whom?” he asks.
I give a small shrug. “Everyone, probably.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.”
His eyes remain on mine. The space between us feels narrower than it did a moment ago. I reach for another document at the same time Julian does, and our fingers brush across the paper.
Neither of us moves immediately. His hand is warm against mine. The contact is slight, but it pulls every memory of Boston sharply back into focus. My pulse stutters. Julian looks down at our hands, then up at me. For one suspended second, we are standing too close.
Close enough that I can see the pale blue of his eyes darken.
Close enough that I can smell his aftershave.
Close enough that if either of us leaned forward, the question would disappear.
I pull my hand away first.
“I should probably get started,” I say, reaching for my notebook.
“Grace is expecting pages by tonight.”
Julian straightens slightly.
“Right.”
I gather the folders I need and force my attention onto the labels.
“Thank you for bringing me down here,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome.”
I look at him once more. His expression has gone controlled again, but not cold.
That almost makes it worse.
“I’ll see you upstairs,” I say.
“You will.”
I turn and head toward the door before I can change my mind about leaving. By the time I reach the corridor, my breathing is too shallow and every nerve in my body feels awake.
***
Later that afternoon, I am back in the visitor office with my laptop open and the archive notes spread across the desk when Daniel appears at the door carrying a slim file folder.
“Do you have a few minutes?” he asks.
“Of course,” I reply.
Daniel steps inside, closes the door behind him, and takes the chair opposite me.
“I wanted to go over the Italy logistics before the final confirmations go out,” he says, placing the folder on the desk.
“You’ll fly into Milan next week. Your car service will meet you at the airport and take you directly to the hotel. You’ll be there for two nights.”
I glance down at the folder as he opens it.
“Same hotel as Julian?” I ask.
“Yes,” Daniel says.
“Separate suites. Your full itinerary will be emailed as well, but I wanted you to have the hard copy.”
He turns the first page toward me.
“You’ll meet with the Milan operations team, several regional executives, and two members of the European engineering group. There’s also a client dinner scheduled for the first evening.”
I scan the list of names and times.
“Sounds straightforward.”
“There’s one additional change,” Daniel says.
I look up.
“The final interview segment won’t take place in Milan.”
“Where will it be?”
“At the Blackwell family estate on Lake Como.”
For a second, I am certain I heard him wrong.
“The family estate?”
“Yes.”
I sit back slightly. I have heard about the different Blackwell Estates for years; Italy, Germany, London, Abu Dhabi, and Singapore—all locations that their affiliates and offices operate in.
Usually the lore about these estates are in the same breath as private compounds, generational wealth, and the kind of discretion money can buy when it has had decades to perfect itself.
They are rarely photographed and even less frequently opened to outsiders.
Daniel watches my reaction without comment.
“How long?” I ask.
“Three days,” he replies. “Transportation from Milan will be arranged. The estate manager has already been contacted, and your accommodations will be prepared there.”
I glance back at the itinerary.
“Three days at Lake Como.”
“That’s correct.”
“And the interviews?”
“Final family and legacy material, access to selected private records, and whatever additional time Mr. Blackwell feels is useful.”
My eyes flick briefly toward Daniel.
“Julian arranged this?”
Daniel’s expression remains professional.
“He requested the change.”
I look back down at the folder before he can read too much from my face.
“All right.”
Daniel closes the file and slides it toward me.
“Your flights are first class. The hotel in Milan is confirmed, as are the chauffeur services and all ground transportation. If anything changes, I’ll send you an updated version immediately.”
“Thank you.”
“If you have questions, call me directly.”
“I will.”
Daniel stands.
“I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks, Daniel.”
He leaves, and the office is quiet again.
I wait several seconds before opening the folder.
The itinerary is exactly what I expected from Blackwell: first-class airfare, five-star accommodations, private cars, detailed access schedules, and enough contingency planning to make international travel look effortless.
I turn to the final pages of the itinerary:
Lake Como, the Blackwell family estate, three days.
My pulse quickens as I close the folder and push it a few inches away from me. One week is definitely enough time to get my head back where it belongs. I reopen Grace’s report and place my hands on the keyboard, as I continue typing.