Page 16 of Secret Heir

The driveway curves through manicured grounds lit by landscape lighting.

There’s perfectly trimmed hedges, sculptural trees, and a bubbling fountain that probably costs more than I’ve made in the last eight years combined.

The house itself rises from the darkness like something out of a magazine. Three stories of pale stone and enormous windows. There are lights on inside, warm and welcoming, and I can see the ocean beyond it. The Atlantic stretches dark and infinite under the night sky.

Eight years ago, I would have been breathless at the sight of it.

I would have pressed my face to the window and marveled at the beauty, the luxury, and the sheer wealth on display.

Now all I see is the prison it is.

Security cameras are mounted at every corner. A high fence surrounds the property.

I glimpse guards in the shadows—three of them at least, maybe more. The isolation of it, set back from the road with nothing but trees and ocean for miles.

There’s no escape from here. Maksim has made sure of that.

Daniel stirs against my shoulder, waking as the car stops. “Mama? Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe, baby.” The lie tastes bitter. “Just rest.”

Maksim gets out first, and a moment later my door opens.

He’s there, silhouetted against the light from the house, and I have to force myself to move and unbuckle Daniel and gather him in my arms, even though he’s getting heavy and my back aches from carrying him earlier.

I won’t let Maksim carry him. I will not let those hands touch my son.

The front door opens as we approach, and a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and sensible shoes appears.

She says something in Russian to Maksim, who responds in the same language.

I catch maybe one word in three—my Russian is rusty and limited to the phrases I picked up working at the gallery in Brighton Beach all those years ago.

Inside, the house is even more beautiful than the exterior. Soaring ceilings, hardwood floors that gleam like glass, and modern art on the walls that I recognize from auction catalogs. A Rothko. Is that a Kandinsky? Pieces worth millions hanging like they’re nothing.

The woman—housekeeper, I assume—leads us up a sweeping staircase to the second floor. Maksim follows behind us, close enough that I can feel his presence like a weight on my shoulders.

We stop in front of a door near the end of the hallway. The woman opens it and steps aside.

“Your rooms,” Maksim says. His first words since we landed.

I step inside and stop. It’s not a room. It’s a suite.

The sitting area is bigger than our entire apartment, with plush cream carpet, a sectional sofa that could seat eight people, and built-in bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes.

A fireplace already flickers with gentle flames. French doors lead to what looks like a private balcony overlooking the ocean.

And toys. So many toys still in their packages. Building blocks, puzzles, action figures, art supplies, stuffed animals.

A fortune in toys scattered across a coffee table and the floor like someone went into a store and bought one of everything.

Daniel lifts his head from my shoulder, and I feel him tense as he takes it all in. His gray eyes go wide.

“Is this…for me?” His voice is small and uncertain.

“Yes.” Maksim’s voice comes from behind us. “All of it.”

“Mama?” Daniel looks at me, seeking permission, and something in my chest cracks.