Page 2 of Secret Heir

My body moves before my brain catches up. I turn and run—not toward the apartment where Daniel is sleeping, but away from it. Away from him.

If I can lead Maksim away, if I can just get him to follow me instead of⁠—

“Aria.”

The sound of my real name stops me cold.

My legs lock, and I’m standing frozen on the sidewalk three doors down from the gallery, breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

His footsteps are measured and unhurried. He knows I have nowhere to go.

“Don’t run.” His voice is closer now, right behind me. “You know I’ll catch you. Then I’ll have to go upstairs to find out why you’re so desperate to lead me away from that apartment.”

Ice floods my veins. I turn slowly, and he’s there. Close enough that I can see the stubble shadowing his jaw, the scar I used to trace with my fingers, the small lines around his eyes that weren’t there before.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s too high and thin. “My name is Sarah Mitchell. You must have me confused with⁠—”

“Stop.” He takes a step forward. I take one back, and my spine hits the brick wall of the dry cleaner. “I’ve been watching you for five months, Aria. I know where you work and where you live. I know you take the 7 bus to the grocery store on Tuesdays because it’s cheaper than the one in your neighborhood. I also know you haven’t bought yourself new clothes in over a year.” His eyes travel down my body, taking in the threadbare jeans and donated sweater. “I know everything.”

“Then you know I’m not who you think I am.” I try to slide along the wall, but he moves with me, keeping me trapped. Panic is coursing through me. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that.” His handsome face is impassive. “Not anymore. Not now that I’ve found you.”

Air is getting harder and harder to get into my lungs. “I don’t know you.” The lie tastes like ash.

He scoffs before he pulls out his phone, swiping through something before he holds it up.

The screen shows a photo of me from eight years ago.

Longer hair. A real smile.

Standing in front of the gallery in Brighton Beach where we met, where I used to work before⁠—

Before everything fell apart.

“This is you,” he says quietly. “Ariana Delano. Born in Syracuse. Parents deceased. Graduated from NYU with a degree in art history. Worked at Levitsky Gallery for three years.” He swipes to another photo of me and him together, his arm around my shoulders, both of us laughing at something. I remember that day. It was two weeks before I ran. “This is us.”

I close my eyes. “That was a long time ago,” I whisper.

“Eight years, three months, and sixteen days,” he says roughly. “Not long enough for me to forget.”

When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Answers.” He pockets the phone. “You disappeared without a word. No note. No explanation. Your apartment was empty—everything gone except the furniture. Your phone disconnected. Your bank accounts closed. It was like you never existed.” He pauses, jaw tightening. “I thought someone had taken you. Hurt you. I searched everywhere. Questioned everyone. Turned over every rock in this city trying to find you.”

The anguish in his voice is real, and it cuts deeper than any threat could.

Because part of me—the part that loved him, that spent three perfect months in his arms—wants to reach out and comfort him.

But I can’t. I can’t let myself forget what he is.

“I had to leave.” I force the words out. “That’s all you need to know.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s not enough. You don’t just disappear for eight years without a reason. What happened that night? What made you run?”

I press my lips together and say nothing.