Page 37 of Secret Heir

“I gave you both everything you were lacking.” His voice is hard. “A home. Safety. Education. Culture. Everything a child needs to thrive.”

“I gave him love⁠—”

“Love doesn’t fill empty stomachs.” He cuts me off, and there’s something vicious in his tone. “Love doesn’t teach a child languages or expose him to art and music. Love doesn’t erase the damage of eight years of poverty and instability. You loved him, Aria. I don’t doubt that. But love wasn’t enough.”

I blink back tears. “It was all I had to give,” I whisper.

Maksim’s face doesn’t show any sympathy. “Then you should have given him to someone who had more.” And by someone, he means him. “If you truly loved him, you would have done what was best for him. Not what made you feel better about your choices.”

Hatred fills me. I want to hurt him so bad and tell him exactly what I saw that night that made me run.

But I can’t. The truth is too dangerous. If he knows I saw what I did, he might decide I’m too much trouble and get rid of me. And then what happens to Daniel?

So I swallow the words and turn away.

“That’s what I thought,” Maksim says behind me. “No real answers. Just anger and accusations. Just like always.”

He leaves, and I’m alone again.

Always alone.

It's been exactly four weeks and five days when everything falls apart.

I’m in the library on the first floor curled in an armchair with a book I’m not actually reading. It’s nearly ten p.m., and Daniel went to bed an hour ago after another day of adventures with his father.

The library is one of my favorite rooms in the house, despite everything.

It has floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a marble fireplace with a fire crackling softly, and deep leather chairs.

It should feel pretentious, but instead it feels safe and quiet. A place where I can pretend for a few hours that I’m not a prisoner.

I hear footsteps and look up. Maksim is in the doorway, and I wrinkle my nose. I can smell the vodka on him from across the room.

He’s wearing dark slacks and a dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, the top two buttons undone.

His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it.

There’s a looseness to his movements, a lack of the rigid control he usually maintains.

He’s been drinking.

He’s not drunk, but he’s definitely not sober.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“We have nothing to talk about.” I turn back to my book, even though my heart is suddenly racing.

“Wrong.” He walks in, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds ominous. The firelight catches on his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. “We have eight years to talk about. And I’m done waiting.”

“Then you’re going to be disappointed,” I tell him dryly, refusing to look at him. “Because I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why?” His voice is rough with alcohol and frustration. I can hear it in the slight slur of his words, the way his accent is more pronounced. “What are you so afraid of? What did you see that night that was so terrible you’ve kept it secret for eight years?”

“I saw enough.” My hands tighten on the book. “Enough to know I had to leave.”

“That’s not an answer.” He’s right in front of my chair now, looming over me.

This close, I can see the tension in his shoulders, and the barely leashed violence in the set of his jaw.