Page 33 of Secret Heir

He’s stopped hoarding food and hiding it for later.

Now he eats meals without fear, goes back for seconds without guilt, and leaves food on his plate because he knows there will be more.

He laughs. God, he laughs.

They’re full belly laughs that I haven’t heard in a long time, before poverty ground us down into survival mode.

He runs through the house with energy he never had before and plays with his toys without that careful, worried expression that used to break my heart.

He’s thriving.

And I’m suffocating.

Every morning, Daniel wakes up asking where Maksim is.

Every afternoon, he follows his father around like a shadow, soaking up attention and stories like a plant that’s been dying of thirst.

Every evening at dinner, all he talks about is what he and Maksim did that day.

“Maksim taught me how to saddle Ranger by myself,” he announces tonight, shoveling roasted chicken into his mouth. We eat in the formal dining room now as Daniel insisted. He said he wanted to eat “like a real family,” and the table that could seat twelve feels cavernous with just the three of us. “And he said next week I can try riding alone in the paddock if I practice more.”

“That’s wonderful, baby.” I force enthusiasm into my voice, forcing my lips into a smile.

“And we went to the stables and Maksim let me help feed all the horses, and Viktor taught me some Russian words.”

Daniel grins at Maksim, who’s sitting at the head of the table like a king surveying his domain.

He’s wearing dark slacks and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and even now, even hating him as much as I do, I can’t deny how unfairly handsome he is.

The way the shirt pulls across his broad shoulders, the strong column of his throat, the way his forearms flex when he reaches for his wine glass.

“I can count to ten in Russian. Want to hear?”

“Of course.” Maksim’s voice is warm when he speaks to Daniel. Only to Daniel. When he looks at me, his gray eyes are cold as winter.

There’s no trace of the man who used to smile at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.

Eight years ago, Maksim looked at me like I was something worth protecting and cherishing.

His eyes would soften when I walked into a room, and he’d pull me close just to breathe me in.

He’d laugh at my terrible jokes about art history and bring me coffee exactly how I liked it without being asked.

He’d tell me I was beautiful and that he’d never felt this way about anyone.

That man is gone.

This Maksim is all hard edges and controlled fury, and the only softness I ever see from him is reserved for our son.

Daniel rattles off numbers in Russian, his pronunciation clumsy but earnest.

Maksim corrects him gently, and Daniel repeats the words with fierce concentration.

I should be happy.

I should be grateful that my son finally has enough, has a father who’s present and attentive. He has the stability I could never give him.

Instead, I feel like I’m being erased.