Page 21 of Secret Heir

He’s eating too fast and barely chewing. He’s shoveling it in like he’s in a race.

I want to tell him to slow down, but the words stick in my throat because I know why he’s eating like this. Meals haven’t been guaranteed. He’s learned to eat when food is available because it might not be there later.

Maksim is watching him with an expression I can’t read.

When Daniel finishes his plate and immediately reaches for more—another pancake, more bacon and fruit, a scoopful of eggs—something flickers across Maksim’s face.

Daniel eats the second helping almost as fast as the first. Then he looks at the cart again, and I see him making decisions. My heart is in my throat.

He picks up a napkin and carefully wraps two pieces of bacon and a Danish inside it.

He folds it small and slides it into his pocket.

Then he grabs another napkin and squirrels away more food into his other pocket.

Maksim’s face goes hard.

The warmth—if there was any—drains from his expression, leaving something arctic behind.

“Daniel,” he says, his voice carefully controlled. “Why don’t you go explore your bedroom? Look at the toys. Your mother and I need to talk.”

Daniel glances at me. I nod even though I’m terrified of what’s coming. “Go ahead, sweetheart. I’ll be right here.”

He goes, clutching the napkins full of food crinkling in his pockets.

The moment his bedroom door closes, Maksim rounds on me.

“How?” His voice is low and dangerous. “How could you let this happen?”

“Let what happen?” I stand, putting the sofa between us.

“That.” He gestures toward Daniel’s bedroom, his face pinched. “Food hoarding. Eating like he’s starving. Because he has been starving, hasn’t he?”

“He’s had enough to eat,” I say defensively. It was enough, but then he started going through a growth spurt and…

“Bullshit.” He moves toward me and I back up instinctively. “I’ve seen the photos, Aria. I’ve watched him eat charity food and food bank boxes. I’ve seen him go days with barely anything except the shit food they give him at school.” His voice rises. “He’s hoarding food in his pockets like he’s fucking Oliver Twist. That doesn’t happen unless a child has learned what hunger feels like.”

“I did my best.” My voice is shaking. “I worked every hour I could. I gave him everything I had.”

“It wasn’t enough!” The words explode from him. “Your best wasn’t enough, and you were too proud and stubborn to ask for help.” He holds up one thick finger. “One phone call, Aria. One fucking phone call to me, and he would have had everything he needed.”

“I wasn’t calling you.” My own rage rises to meet his. “I wasn’t bringing him into your world.”

“So instead you let him starve.” He’s moving around the sofa now, coming toward me. “You let him wear clothes with holes. You let him learn to hoard food like he can’t trust where his next meal is coming from. You let my son—our son—suffer because of your pride.”

I flush. “It wasn’t pride⁠—”

“Then what was it?” He’s right in front of me now, his gray eyes flashing. “What possible reason could you have for letting a child go hungry? For watching him get thinner and thinner and not doing anything about it?”

“I was protecting him!” The words tear from my throat. “I was keeping him safe from you⁠—”

“Safe?” His laugh is harsh and bitter. “You call that safe? He’s seven fucking years old and he knows what it feels like to be hungry. He hoards food in his pockets. He eats like every meal might be his last.” His voice drops and becomes deadly quiet. “That’s not safety, Aria. That’s survival. And children shouldn’t have to survive their own childhoods.”

Hitting me would have hurt more.

Each word lands where it hurts most because they’re true.

All of it is true.