Page 46 of Secret Heir

“I don’t know,” I admit, hating how his face falls in disappointment. “We’re trying to figure out how to be in each other’s lives for you.”

“I wish you didn’t fight so much.” He kicks his legs morosely and stares at the floor. “It makes my stomach hurt.”

Guilt curdles in my stomach and I suddenly feel sick. Of course our constant warfare is affecting him. He’s a child caught between parents who can barely stand to be in the same room without tearing each other apart.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him sincerely as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Your mother and I are both trying. We just…we have a lot to work through.”

“Because of the thing she saw?” He says it so casually, and I freeze, my mouth drying. There’s no way, right? There’s no fucking way Aria would have told our child what she saw that night. Right?

“What thing?” I ask, trying to sound uninterested but probably fail miserably.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But sometimes when she thinks I’m asleep, she talks to herself. And she says she can’t tell you because it’s too dangerous. That if you knew what she saw, you might—” He stops, his face scrunching up. “I don’t remember the rest. But it scared her.”

My mind is racing. What she saw. What I might do if I knew. The pieces are there, scattered across eight years, but I can’t quite fit them together.

“Your mama is very brave,” I say carefully. “And she loves you more than anything in the world. Whatever she’s afraid of, she’s trying to protect you from it.”

“But you wouldn’t hurt us,” he points out and my chest aches at that. The way he says it as if it’s a statement of fact and said with the certainty of a child who’s made up his mind. “You’re not like the bad guys in my books.”

If only it were that simple.

“No,” I agree. “I would never hurt you or your mother. No matter what.”

He nods, satisfied with this answer. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course.”

He fidgets with the book in his lap, not meeting my eyes. “What should I call you?”

My heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re my dad, right? But it feels weird calling you Maksim. Like you’re just some guy instead of…” He trails off, clearly struggling with the words.

I can barely breathe. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been hoping for. The moment when he acknowledges me not just as a man who shares his DNA, but as his father.

“What would you like to call me?” I keep my voice gentle, careful not to push.

He shrugs, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. What do other kids call their dads?”

“Some say Dad. Or Papa. Or Father, though that’s pretty formal.” I pause, hardly daring to breathe. “Whatever feels right to you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, thinking. I can see him working through it. “What did you call your dad?”

“Papa,” I say, my voice raw, barely daring to hope. “Your uncle and I called him Papa.”

“Papa feels too soon,” he says finally. “And you don’t look like a Dad. I don’t like Father.”

The rejection stings more than it should. I want to be Papa with the intimacy and warmth it implies. But I understand. We’ve only known each other for six weeks. Papa is earned, not given.

“That makes sense,” I manage, though I am really disappointed. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

“What about…” He chews his lower lip uncertainly. “What about Maks? Is that okay?”

Maks. Not Maksim. Not Papa. But something in between. A nickname that’s more familiar than my full name but doesn’t carry the weight of fatherhood.

It’s more than I had six weeks ago.

“Maks is perfect,” I tell him, and I mean it even though it’s not what I desperately want to hear. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”