Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sophie
Iwake slowly, warm beneath the weight of Julian’s arm. For several minutes, I stay exactly where I am.
His bedroom is quiet except for the faint sound of water somewhere beyond the windows and the steady rhythm of his breathing behind me.
Morning light slips through the tall curtains in pale bands, catching along the edge of the enormous bed and the dark wood furniture beyond it.
His room is larger than mine, more restrained in its design, but I barely notice any of it.
Julian is still asleep. I turn carefully beneath his arm until I am facing him.
There is something strangely intimate about seeing him this way, without the alertness that usually sharpens every part of his expression.
His face is softer in sleep, though there is nothing soft about the hard curve of his jaw or the rough shadow beginning to darken it.
His hair is slightly disordered against the pillow, silver catching at his temples in the morning light.
I let my eyes move over him slowly. The bridge of his nose. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His mouth.
Last night still lives in my body as a warm, lingering ache, enough to make my pulse shift when I remember the hours we spent tangled together in this bed.
There had been nothing cautious about us by the end.
Whatever restraint I once believed I had around Julian disappeared somewhere along the way.
Maybe it started in Boston. But Boston feels different now. Boston had been desire finally breaking through days of sexual tension. This feels more dangerous because it no longer belongs only to our bodies.
I know him differently now. That realization settles beneath my ribs with enough force that I stop studying his face.
I am falling for him.
The thought doesn't arrive dramatically. It simply sits there, undeniable. Julian’s eyelids move. His eyes open slowly, unfocused at first before finding mine. A faint smile touches his mouth.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
“Good morning.”
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer before he leans in and kisses me.
There is no urgency in it this time. His mouth moves gently against mine, warm and unhurried, and I slide one hand along the side of his face as the kiss deepens for only a few seconds before he eases back.
His forehead rests briefly against mine.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Julian glances toward the clock beside the bed.
“Just after 7:00.”
“That feels illegal.”
“What does?”
“Being awake after the amount of sleep you allowed me.”
His mouth curves.
“I don't remember hearing many complaints.”
“I was distracted.”
“I noticed.”
I smile despite myself. For a moment, neither of us moves. The tenderness between us feels almost more exposing than anything that happened last night. There is no wine cellar, no teasing, no physical urgency to hide behind. Just daylight and the knowledge that this morning has an expiration time.
Julian brushes his thumb lightly along my waist.
“My helicopter leaves in about two hours,” he says.
The words bring the outside world back into the room.
I nod. “Right.”
“Your car won't leave until later this afternoon.”
I look at him.
“You're leaving that much earlier?”
“I need to get back and deal with a some pending issues.”
Something in his expression changes when he says it, subtle enough that I don't press.
“What time am I leaving?” I ask.
“Clive arranged the chauffeur for early afternoon. You have plenty of time.” Julian's hand moves slowly along my side.
“Have breakfast. Take your time getting ready. Walk around the grounds if you want.”
“You're giving me unsupervised access to the estate?”
“You've already been through the archives. The damage is done.”
I laugh softly. Then the silence returns. I know what neither of us is saying.
What happens when we leave here?
What happens when I go back to Philadelphia and he goes back to New York? What happens when my article is finished and there is no scheduled interview, no archive session, no flight itinerary giving us an excuse to be in the same place?
Last night made the answer feel simple. Morning makes me realize we never actually discussed the logistics of it. Still, I don't feel panic. There will be time.
We can talk when we're home. We can figure out what this looks like when neither of us is living inside this bubble of an assignment or a villa overlooking Lake Como.
Julian watches me for a moment.
“You're thinking too hard.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“I wasn't.”
“You always are.”
He gives me a look that almost makes me smile.
I run my fingers lightly across his chest.
“We'll talk when we're back?” I ask.
It is deliberately vague.
Julian understands anyway.
“Yes.”
The answer comes without hesitation. Something inside me settles. He leans down and kisses me again, slower than before, and I close my eyes as his hand moves into my hair.
For another minute, I let myself stay there with him. No questions about what any of this becomes once we leave. Just Julian's mouth against mine and the quiet certainty that neither of us believes this morning is an ending.
By 8:45, I am showered, dressed, and making my way downstairs toward breakfast when I hear voices carrying through the main foyer.
Julian is standing near the entrance with Clive, already dressed for travel in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a navy jacket. His luggage sits beside the door while one of the staff members carries a smaller bag outside.
He looks up when he sees me. Something in his expression softens immediately.
“You’re early,” Julian says.
“I could say the same thing.”
“My helicopter is already waiting.”
The reminder lands harder now that I can see his bags. I walk toward him, stopping close enough to catch the clean scent of his aftershave beneath the familiar warmth of his skin. For a second, neither of us seems particularly interested in pretending this is an ordinary goodbye.
“I’ll call you when I land,” Julian says.
“You’d better.”
His hand settles at my waist.
“I will.”
I glance toward Clive and the staff nearby. No one is staring, but everyone has suddenly become very interested in luggage, doors, and anything other than us.
That almost makes me laugh. Julian doesn’t appear concerned.
He slides one hand along my jaw and kisses me.
It is not rushed, despite the car waiting outside.
His mouth lingers against mine just long enough to make me forget that we have an audience, and when he pulls back, his thumb brushes once across my cheek.
“We’ll talk soon,” he says.
“Soon,” I repeat.
His eyes stay on mine for another moment. Then Clive clears his throat discreetly.
“Mr. Blackwell, they’re ready for you.”
Julian nods. He gives my waist one final squeeze before releasing me.
“Enjoy breakfast.”
“I plan to.”
“And take your time.”
“I heard you the first three times.”
That earns the faintest smile.
Julian reaches for his jacket, then turns toward the doors as Clive walks beside him. He doesn’t look hurried. He never does. Even with New York waiting for him and a helicopter sitting somewhere beyond the grounds, he moves with the same calm certainty he carries into every room.
At the threshold, he looks back at me once. I lift my hand. His gaze holds mine briefly before he turns and walks outside. The doors close behind him.
I remain in the foyer for another few seconds, staring at the place where he was standing, before finally turning toward breakfast.
By early afternoon, the estate feels different without Julian in it.
I spend the remaining hours slowly rather than trying to fill them.
I eat breakfast on the terrace, take one last walk through part of the garden, then return upstairs to shower again, finish packing, and change for the trip back to Milan.
When I finally pick up my phone from the charger, the screen fills with notifications.
I have two missed calls from Grace, several texts from Maya, and a handful of emails.
I glance at the time and decide that I can sort through everything once I am in the car.
The chauffeur will be here any minute, and my suitcase is still open across the bench at the foot of the bed.
I finish packing, check the room twice, and zip the suitcase closed just as Lucia knocks. When I open the door, she says, “Your car has arrived, Ms. Callahan.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
One of the staff members takes my luggage while Lucia walks downstairs with me. At the entrance, I stop to thank everyone who has taken care of me during my stay. Clive joins us from the adjoining hall and shakes my hand.
“We hope you enjoyed yourself,” he says.
“I did. Very much.”
“Safe travels back to Philadelphia.”
“Thank you, Clive. And thank you for everything.”
Lucia gives me a warm smile.
“You must come back someday.”
The words catch me unexpectedly, and I tell her, “I’d like that.”
The chauffeur opens the rear door, and I slide inside while the luggage is loaded into the trunk.
As the car pulls away, I lift my hand toward Lucia and the staff standing near the entrance.
The villa recedes behind us, first framed by the trees and then disappearing almost entirely as we pass through the gates.
I twist slightly in my seat and look through the rear window until I can no longer see it. The last few days already feel detached from everything that existed before them. They were too private, too intense, and too perfect to fit neatly back into ordinary life.
My phone vibrates against my palm. I turn toward the front again and open Grace’s first voicemail. Her voice comes through the speaker immediately:
Grace: “Umm, Hi. I need an update. There are reports brewing all over the media about Blackwell. I know we have a scheduled check-in once you get back from Italy, but something is happening. Call me as soon as you can.”
I sit straighter because the word reports immediately catches my attention. I replay the message once and then check the timestamp. Grace called while Julian and I were still at the estate.
The second voicemail is shorter.
Grace: “Sophie, call me when you get this.”
A small knot forms beneath my ribs. I open Maya’s messages next.
Maya: Babe, how are you? When do you get back? I read a crazy thing on Twitter today about Blackwell, but it might be one of those fake-news stories. Anyway, I am dying to know how the past few days have been! Call me!
I stare at the screen while the pieces begin to connect. Blackwell, Julian’s phone lighting up with messages, the calls from Adrian and Vivian, and the shortened trip all point toward something serious. I immediately open my browser, but the page takes too long to load.
I try again, but the signal drops to one bar as the car winds higher along the road above the lake.
“Come on,” I mutter.
The page refreshes halfway and then freezes, so I switch to another news app. Nothing appears.
My phone vibrates again. This time, it is not a message but a breaking-news alert. I read the headline once and then read it again.
Blackwell Technologies Faces International Antitrust Investigation.
My stomach drops. “What the fuck?”
The chauffeur glances at me briefly through the rearview mirror before returning his attention to the road.
I tap the alert, and the article begins to load, giving me only fragments before the signal disappears again.
The fragments mention international regulators, competition practices, multiple jurisdictions, and Blackwell Technologies, but the screen stalls when I try to scroll.
“No. No, no, no.”
I toggle airplane mode, turn it off again, and try another source. A second alert appears, followed by a third. The outlets are different, but the story is the same.
My mind starts racing through everything I have seen over the past several days, including Vivian’s call in Milan, Julian’s sudden change in mood, Clive waiting for him at the dock yesterday, the emails, and his decision to leave early.
He knew something was happening, although he might not have known that it would become this large.
I open our messages and start typing.
Sophie: Are you seeing this?
The message hangs on the screen without being delivered. I stare at it while the car continues winding away from the lake. The signal returns briefly, allowing another headline to populate before disappearing again.
I try Grace, but the call fails. I try Maya, and nothing happens.
The timing is almost absurd. For days, I have been surrounded by flawless Wi-Fi, private cars, helicopters, staff, and every possible convenience money can buy.
Now, when I need one functioning connection, I am sitting on a mountain road with a phone that might as well be a brick.
By the time we reach the outskirts on the way toward Milan, I have managed to load only pieces of three different articles.
None of them is complete enough to tell me exactly what is happening, but the tone is unmistakable.
This is not gossip, and it is not a speculative business story. Something real has broken.
I look down at Julian’s unanswered message.
Less than a few hours ago, I watched him leave the villa believing that we had time to talk, figure out what came next, and decide what this could become once the assignment was over.
Now every major news outlet on my phone is carrying his company’s name in a headline he cannot control.
I lock the screen and stare through the window as the lake disappears behind the mountains. Whatever was waiting for us outside of our bubble has finally arrived.