Page 121 of Secret Heir

Daniel shrugs, pushing his pasta around his plate with his fork. He hasn’t even taken one bite yet.

“They’re having a good season this year,” I continue, desperate to get any kind of reaction. “Won their last three matches. There’s this midfielder—Mount—who’s absolutely brilliant. He reminds me of Lampard back in the day. You’d love watching him play.”

Silence.

“And the striker—Jackson—he’s been on fire lately,” I press on, my voice getting a little too enthusiastic, a little too desperate. “He scored two goals in the last match. He’s a legend. He’ll develop into a seriously good player as long as Chelsea keeps him.”

Still nothing.

“Daniel.” Aria’s voice is gentle, but her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “You need to eat, baby. Just a few bites.”

He doesn’t respond or acknowledge she spoke.

“Solnyshko.” I use the endearment without thinking. “Please. You need to⁠—”

He flinches at the word, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed.

But he picks up his fork and takes a small bite of pasta, chewing. He swallows like it’s an effort.

“Good job,” Aria encourages, her voice trembling slightly. “That’s really good, Daniel.”

He takes another bite. Then another. For a moment—just a moment—I let myself hope that maybe this is working. Maybe we’re getting through to him. Maybe the walls he’s built are starting to come down.

“The match this weekend is supposed to be a big one,” I try again, keeping my voice casual. “Against Manchester United. It’s a historic rivalry. Your mother doesn’t understand football at all, but I could teach you. We could watch together, and I’d explain the strategy, the formations⁠—”

Daniel sets down his fork. “My stomach hurts,” he says quietly.

“It’s okay,” Aria says immediately, her hand reaching for his. “You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to. You did great eating as much as you did.”

“No.” Daniel’s voice is strained. “I mean it really hurts.”

I’m already pushing back from the table, my ribs screaming in protest. “What kind of hurt? Where exactly?” I ask in concern.

“My mouth feels weird.” Daniel’s hand goes to his throat, his fingers pressing against his skin. “Numb. Like—like when the dentist gives me the shot before he fills a cavity.”

Alarm bells start ringing in my head. “Daniel, look at me. Look at Papa.”

He does, and I see his pupils are dilated. Too dilated.

He’s sweating— a profuse, sudden sweating that soaks through his sweater in seconds. His face goes from pale to gray.

“Daniel?” Aria is on her feet, her eyes wide. “Baby, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“Can’t—” Daniel’s words are slurring now, his tongue thick in his mouth. “Can’t feel my legs. Mama⁠—”

He collapses.

One second he’s sitting in the chair, and the next he’s on the floor, his small body convulsing violently.

“Daniel!” Aria’s scream is pure terror. She drops to her knees beside him, her hands reaching for him.

My broken ribs are forgotten as I throw myself on the floor next to my son. His body is jerking uncontrollably—limbs flailing, back arching, and head snapping back so hard I’m afraid he’ll break his neck.

White, frothy foam is coming from his mouth mixed with blood where he’s bitten his tongue and I know immediately what’s going on.

Poison. He’s been poisoned.

“Help!” I shout, trying to hold Daniel steady without hurting him. I can’t let him crack his skull on the marble floor. “Someone get help now!”