Page 4 of Secret Heir

“Agreed.” He steps back, giving me space to move.

I walk back to the gallery on shaking legs.

My purse is still on the sidewalk where I dropped it.

I pick it up, fingers clumsy as I fish out the keys.

It takes three tries to get the right key, and when I finally manage to slot it into the lock, my hands are trembling so badly I almost drop them again.

The door swings open. The bell chimes and it’s too cheerful and normal for this moment.

I step inside, and Maksim follows.

He closes the door behind him with a quiet click that sounds like a prison cell locking.

The gallery feels smaller with him in it.

He’s always had that effect—filling up space, making the air feel thinner.

I back up behind the counter, needing something between us. Some barrier, however useless.

I grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white. “What do you want?” My voice trembles even though I’m trying so hard for it not to.

“I already told you. Answers.” He moves deeper into the gallery, looking around. He takes in the cheap fixtures, the donated furniture, and the secondhand display cases. His expression doesn’t change, but I can feel his judgment. “Why did you run?”

I shake my head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Does it matter?” I meet his eyes, trying to look braver than I feel. “Either way, the answer is no.”

His jaw tightens. “Eight years, Aria. I’ve spent eight years wondering if you were alive or dead. I’ve turned down every woman, every possibility of happiness, because I couldn’t move on. And you won’t even tell me why?”

The pain in his voice is real. I can hear it and see it in the tension around his eyes. Part of me wants to tell him and explain that I saw things that night that made me realize I didn’t know him at all.

But I can’t.

Because if I tell him what I saw, what I heard, he’ll know I’m a liability.

A witness.

And witnesses don’t stay breathing in his world.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, twisting my hands. “But I can’t.”

“Then let’s talk about something else.” He pulls out his phone and swipes through photos. “Let’s talk about the boy.”

Every muscle in my body locks. “What boy?” I ask carefully, trying to sound like he hasn’t just cleaved my world in two.

He holds up the phone. The screen shows a photo of a small, dark-haired child, with gray eyes that look too familiar.

Daniel. My son.

Walking to school with his backpack, completely unaware he’s being photographed.

“His name is Daniel Mitchell,” Maksim says, his voice neutral. “Seven years old. He goes to Franklin Elementary. His teacher is Mrs. Rodriguez.” He swipes to another photo. Daniel in the park, feeding pigeons. “He likes to read during recess instead of playing with the other children.” Another swipe. Daniel on the church steps, eating from a food bank box.

That last photo makes bile rise in my throat. He saw that. He watched my son, hungry and thin, eating donated food⁠—