Chapter 19 #2
Let him help me make sense of something that does not feel real yet.
My thumb hovers above his name. Then the headlines flash through my mind. Cameras outside Blackwell headquarters. The investigation. The silence from him. Every report talking about regulators, lawyers, and a company coming apart under scrutiny.
I lock the screen.
Not now.
I cannot drop this into the middle of whatever he is already fighting. I open Maya’s messages instead.
Sophie: Can you come over tonight? I really need you.
Her reply comes almost immediately.
Maya: Yes. What happened?
I stare at the question.
Sophie: I’ll tell you when you get there.
That evening, Maya sits across from me on my sofa with both feet tucked beneath her and a glass of water untouched on the coffee table.
She has been listening for almost twenty minutes.
Not just about the doctor.
Everything.
Boston.
Italy.
Julian.
The nights at the estate.
The investigation.
The silence afterward.
When I finally tell her how far along I am, Maya’s face goes completely still.
“Six weeks?” she asks.
I nod.
Her eyes widen. “Sophie.”
“I know.”
“So this happened in Boston?”
“Yes.”
Maya leans back slowly, one hand covering her mouth. For once, she has absolutely nothing to say. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Instead, tears begin sliding down my face again.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Maya immediately moves from the chair to the sofa beside me.
“You don’t have to know tonight,” she says.
“I feel like I should.”
“You found out a few hours ago.”
“I’m pregnant with Julian Blackwell’s baby while his company is being investigated internationally and I can’t even get him on the phone.”
“I know.”
“What kind of timing is this?”
“The worst kind.”
That pulls a wet laugh out of me.
Maya reaches for my hand.
“Are you going to tell him?”
I stare down at our joined hands.
“Yes.”
The answer surprises me with how quickly it comes.
Then I shake my head.
“Just not right now.”
Maya watches me carefully.
“Because of the investigation?”
“Because of everything.” I wipe my cheeks.
“I don’t even know what his life looks like right now. I don’t know what this means yet. I need five minutes where nobody else gets to decide what happens next.”
Maya squeezes my hand.
“That’s fair.”
“I need to think.”
“Then think.”
I look at her as she shifts closer and wraps both arms around me.
I fold into her before I can stop myself.
For several minutes, neither of us says anything.
I hold on to my best friend while one hand settles unconsciously against my stomach, and for the first time since the doctor spoke those words, I let myself feel how completely my life has changed.
***
Early the following morning, my phone vibrates against the nightstand before I am fully awake, and for one disoriented second, I think it is Julian.
I reach for it too quickly, only to find the screen crowded with alerts, emails, and messages instead of his name.
One headline sits above everything else.
THE BLACKWELL DYNASTY: LEGACY OR LIES?
I stare at it before tapping the notification.
The article opens beneath a photograph of Julian and Adrian leaving Blackwell headquarters behind a wall of cameras, and the first paragraphs are worse than the headline.
Pieces of family history sit beside references to the antitrust investigation, acquisition strategy, internal culture, executive access, and years of expansion.
My stomach turns before I even reach the byline.
I scroll upward and find the name beneath the headline.
By Kate Hobbes.
For several seconds, I cannot breathe properly.
Kate. I keep reading, and the structure becomes unmistakable almost immediately.
My interviews, my research, and my notes from Boston, New York, and the early background sessions have been stripped of the context in which I gathered them and stitched into a story built around the scandal.
Details that were supposed to explain the Blackwell family now read like evidence of secrecy, ambition, and institutional control.
Grace gave her my work.
My phone vibrates again with another alert carrying the same story, followed by another one seconds later.
I throw the covers back and barely make it to the bathroom before I vomit.
When I straighten over the sink, my hands are shaking against the marble, and Julian is the only person I can think about.
He is going to see this article. He is going to recognize details that came from conversations with me, and he is going to believe I handed them over willingly. Worse, my name may be attached somewhere beneath it, giving him every reason to think I participated.
I rinse my mouth, grab my phone, and call him. The line rings once before switching to a busy signal. I try again and get the same response.
“Come on, Julian,” I whisper as I call a third time, but nothing changes.
Panic crawls higher into my chest. I find the main number for Blackwell headquarters and call directly, gripping the phone as I wait through several rings.
“Blackwell Technologies. How may I direct your call?” the receptionist asks.
“This is Sophie Callahan. I need to speak with Julian Blackwell,” I say.
There is a brief pause before the receptionist responds.
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
“It’s personal,” I tell her.
“Please tell him Sophie Callahan is calling.”
There is a blatant pause on the other end of the line.
“One moment,” the receptionist says very slowly, as if my name has set off alarms.
I grip the phone hard enough that my fingers ache while I wait. The line clicks, and then Daniel’s voice comes through.
“Daniel speaking.”
Relief hits me first.
“Daniel, thank God. I need to speak to Julian.”
His tone changes immediately.
“Ms. Callahan, all press and media inquiries are being handled through our public relations division.”
I blink, momentarily stunned.
“This isn’t a press inquiry.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not able to put you through,” Daniel says.
“Daniel, you know who I am.”
There is a brief silence before he answers, and when he does, his voice is noticeably colder.
“I’m aware of your name.”
The words land like a slap.
“Then you know I worked directly with Julian,” I say.
“All media-related communications are being redirected to PR,” Daniel replies.
“I’m not calling as media.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Daniel, please,” I say, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat.
“Just tell him I called.”
“I’m not authorized to do that.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“Not authorized?”
“I have another call waiting,” Daniel says.
“Goodbye, Ms. Callahan.”
The line goes dead before I can answer.
I stare at the phone for several seconds, trying to process what just happened. Then anger replaces the shock so quickly that I am already pulling clothes from my closet before I consciously decide to go anywhere. By the time I reach the office, I am furious enough that the nausea barely registers.
Grace is behind her desk when I walk into her office. She looks up sharply when she sees me.
“Sophie,” she says.
“What the hell did you do?” I demand.
Her expression hardens immediately.
“Close the door.”
I shut it behind me and turn back toward her.
“You gave Kate my notes?”
Grace leans back in her chair.
“I reassigned the story.”
“You stole my reporting.”
“I reassigned company work product,” she corrects.
“You took interviews I conducted for one story and turned them into a hit piece.”
“That is not what happened,” Grace says.
“That is exactly what happened.”
Grace folds her hands on the desk and looks at me evenly.
“You refused to finish the article.”
“Because the circumstances changed.”
“The news cycle did not wait for you to feel comfortable,” Grace replies.
My jaw clenches.
“You knew I objected.”
“I knew you were stalling.”
“I told you why.”
“And I told you that you work for this publication.”
I stare at her, struggling to understand how she can say any of this as though the distinction between journalism and exploitation means nothing.
Grace continues, her voice more measured now.
“Your name is not on the byline.”
“That doesn’t make this better.”
“You are credited in the reporting notes.”
My stomach drops all over again.
“What?”
“You contributed reporting,” Grace says.
“That is accurate.”
“You put my name in the footnotes?”
“You did the reporting, Sophie.”
I can barely process the audacity of it.
“So now Blackwell sees my name attached to a story I refused to write.”
Grace’s expression tightens.
“You are a journalist. Your job is not to protect the subject.”
“This has nothing to do with protecting a subject.”
“Then what does it have to do with?” Grace asks.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I cannot tell her about Julian. I cannot tell her about Boston or Italy. I certainly cannot tell her that I found out yesterday I am carrying his child.
Grace watches me closely before leaning back in her chair.
“That’s what I thought.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“You had no right.”
“I had every right,” Grace replies. “Those notes belong to the publication.”
I stand there for another second, looking at the woman I have worked for and trusted, and realize there is nothing I can say that will make her understand the line she crossed. I turn without another word and leave her office.
Inside my own office, I close the door, lock it, and lower myself into the chair behind my desk. The first sob catches me before I can stop it, and I cover my face with both hands as everything I have been holding together finally breaks loose.
My phone vibrates repeatedly on the desk. Maya’s name appears once, then again, followed by another message a few minutes later. I cannot answer her yet.
I stay there for hours with the blinds closed while the article spreads across every screen outside my office and my name sits buried beneath it, attached to something I never agreed to write.
***