Page 3 of Secret Heir

“Aria.” He moves closer, and I flatten myself against the brick. There’s barely a few inches between us at this point. He’s so close I can feel his body heat. “Talk to me.”

“No.” My voice is barely a whisper.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him thinking. Then his expression changes, hardening into something that makes my blood run cold.

“Fine,” he says. “Don’t tell me. But you’re going to open that gallery door, and we’re going to have this conversation inside and away from the street.”

“No.” I shake my head frantically. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“That wasn’t a request.” He gestures toward the gallery. “Open the door, Aria. Now.”

My sense of self-preservation is screaming at me to just listen to him and open the door, but I’m not listening to it for once. I tilt my chin up and square my shoulders, trying to appear more brave than I actually am. “And if I don’t?”

He raises an eyebrow before he pulls out his phone again, typing something. “Then I’ll open it myself. And I’ll go upstairs to your apartment to see what—or who—you’re trying so hard to keep me away from.”

My heart stops. “There’s nothing,” I lie, heart thumping erratically.

“Liar.” He shows me the phone screen. It’s a blueprint of my building, with the gallery on the first floor and two residential apartments above it. The third floor is highlighted. “I know you live on the top floor. I know there’s someone else living with you. So either you open that door and we talk like adults, or I go up those stairs and find out for myself.”

“You can’t.” The words come out strangled. “You have no right⁠—”

“I have every right.” His voice drops and becomes almost gentle, which is even scarier. “Because I think I know what you’re hiding.” A sly smile crosses his face. “Or rather, who.”

I want to throw up, horrified. No. No, he can’t know. I’ve been so careful.

“I’m calling the police.” I fumble for my purse, remembering I dropped it back by the gallery door. “You can’t just threaten me like this.”

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t look concerned. “Call them. Tell them Maksim Sokolov is harassing you. See what happens.”

That’s when I remember.

The Sokolov Bratva.

The connections.

The money in every pocket that matters.

If I call the cops, they’ll take one look at him—at his expensive coat, his air of authority—then at me.

The woman living under a fake name with no legal documentation, working cash jobs, and hiding from something.

They’ll side with him.

“Please.” I hate how my voice breaks. “Please just leave us alone.”

“Us.” He latches onto the word immediately. “So there is someone upstairs.”

I close my eyes. Stupid. So stupid.

“Last chance,” Maksim says. “Open the door, or I go up those stairs.”

I think about running or screaming for help. Hell, I even think about fighting him.

But he’s bigger and stronger, and he has resources I can’t even imagine. If I make a scene, and I draw attention, Daniel will wake up. He’ll hear the commotion. He’ll be scared.

I can’t let that happen.

“Fine.” The word tastes like defeat. “But we stay downstairs. Away from—” I catch myself. “We talk downstairs.”