Page 54 of Secret Heir

We both reach for it at the same time.

His hand closes over mine on the spine, and I freeze. His skin is cool, the burn scar on his hand rough against my knuckles. He’s way too close and I can smell his cologne, which is too strong.

He’s so close I can see the way his silver-threaded hair is combed back from his face.

“Allow me.” He picks up the book and reads the spine. “Art authentication techniques.” His eyes cut to mine and I feel locked in place. “Still interested in the field?”

My mouth is dry. “Just…passing time,” I say, hoping I sound believable.

“Mmm.” He hands me the book, and I snatch it from him, clutching it to my chest like a shield. “It must be difficult, being away from your work. Did you keep up with authentication in Philadelphia?”

The question feels loaded, like he’s testing me to see what I’ll reveal.

“A little.” I edge toward the door. “Excuse me, I need to⁠—”

“It’s interesting.” He moves slightly, not blocking my path, but making me acutely aware of his presence. “I could swear we’ve met before. Perhaps at a gallery opening? I attended quite a few in Brighton Beach years ago.”

My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I don’t think so.” I need to get out of here.

“No?” His head tilts slightly, like he’s studying a puzzle. “Strange. You seem so familiar. The art world is small, after all.” He snaps his fingers as if he’s gotten it. “You worked at the Levitsky Gallery, correct?”

He knows. Oh god, he knows exactly who I am and where I worked and he’s playing with me like a cat with a mouse.

“You must have me confused with someone else. I really need to go.” I move past him, and his hand barely brushes my arm. It makes my skin crawl.

“Of course. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to talk more another time.” His voice follows me as I hurry toward the door. “About art and…old times.”

I don’t respond. I walk out of the library with measured steps when everything in me is screaming to run. I make it to the nearest bathroom and make sure I lock the door behind me before I sink to the floor.

My hands are shaking. Actually no, my whole body is shaking.

Somehow, he recognized me and now he’s testing to see what I know, whether I’m a threat.

The panic attack hits like a freight train. I can’t get air into my lungs. My vision tunnels and black spots dance at the edges. I press my forehead to my knees and try to count—one, two, three, four—but the numbers dissolve into static.

He’s here. He has access to this house and to my son. He’s a traitor who murdered someone in cold blood and plotted to kill Nikolai Sokolov.

What is he doing here? Why is he still close to the family after all these years?

Unless…unless he succeeded. Unless Nikolai is already dead and Alexander has taken over and no one knows.

No. That doesn’t make sense either. Maksim talks about his brother in present tense. Nikolai is alive. That means the plot failed or hasn’t happened yet. Or Maksim was involved and the plan changed and I don’t know anything for certain except that Alexander is here and I’m trapped.

I don’t know who to trust. I can’t trust anyone, not even the father of my child, because what if he was part of it? What if he’s still part of whatever Alexander is planning?

I don’t know long I sit there on the cold tile floor, trying to remember how to breathe. Eventually, the panic subsides enough that I can stand on trembling legs. I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror. I wince. I look like hell. I’m pale and hollow-eyed, with dark circles that makeup can’t quite hide. I look like someone who’s been running for eight years and finally got caught.

Because that’s exactly what I am.

Alexander starts visiting more frequently after that, at least two times a week. “Business meetings,” Maksim says when I ask why Alexander is here so often. “There are territorial issues that need attention. Alexander is helping coordinate the response.”

I want to scream that Alexander is the territorial issue. He’s the danger and the viper in Maksim’s house and no one sees it but me.

But I can’t. I have no proof or evidence. Just eight-year-old memories of things I overheard while hiding in a warehouse. And because I don’t know if Maksim was involved too. Would warning him sign my own death warrant?

And who would believe me?

I try to avoid Alexander, but the estate isn’t that large. We cross paths in hallways, in the dining room, and on the grounds. Every time, he’s unfailingly polite and asks how I’m settling in or comments on the weather. The small talk feels like a knife against my throat.