Page 71 of Secret Heir

“It’s beautiful,” she says quietly. “The sunrise. I’ve been watching it most mornings since we got here. It’s different every day.”

“You should have told me. I would have watched with you.” I would have wanted to share that with her.

She glances at me, the sunlight reflecting off her brown eyes, highlighting the gold threads before she looks back out the window. “You’re always so busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re never a bother,” I say roughly. “You’re—” I stop myself before I say something I can’t take back.

You’re everything. You’re the reason I wake up. You’re the center of my world whether you want to be or not.

She’s looking at me now, her dark eyes searching my face. Her lips are slightly parted, and I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat. The air between us feels charged and electric.

I lean in slightly, drawn to her like gravity. Her breath catches, and I see her eyes drop to my mouth.

“Mama! Maks!”

We spring apart as Daniel bursts through the door, still in his pajamas, his hair sticking up in all directions.

“I’m hungry,” he announces. “Can we have pancakes? Please?”

The moment is broken. Aria’s guard snaps back into place, and she’s already putting distance from me.

“Pancakes sound perfect,” she says, her voice steady. “Let’s go make some breakfast.”

The kitchen is bright with morning sunlight streaming through the windows. It’s already warm. July in the Hamptons means temperatures in the eighties, and the air has that heavy, humid quality that promises it’ll be even hotter by afternoon.

Aria moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling out ingredients while Daniel climbs onto a stool at the island. She’s still wearing my t-shirt, and I can see the gentle curve of her stomach more clearly now in the bright light.

Ten weeks. We’re ten weeks into this pregnancy, and I’m still discovering new things every day. The way she craves orange juice in the morning or how certain smells make her nauseous. She’s beautiful in a completely different way than before. She’s softer, more luminous, and carrying my child.

“Can I help?” Daniel asks eagerly.

“You can measure the flour,” Aria tells him, setting out measuring cups. “But be careful⁠—”

“I know, I know. Don’t spill it everywhere.” Daniel grins at me, his eyes alight with mischief. “Mama says I’m messy in the kitchen.”

“You are messy in the kitchen,” Aria says in exasperation, but there’s affection in her voice. “Last time you helped, we found flour in places we didn’t even know existed.”

Daniel giggles and starts measuring carefully. Aria stands beside him, guiding his hands, and I lean against the counter watching them.

“Breakfast foods are the food Mama can make,” Daniel stage-whispers to me, loud enough that Aria definitely hears.

“Excuse me?” Aria’s eyebrows rise. “I can cook.”

“Uh-huh.” Daniel’s skepticism is clear. “What about the chicken?”

“That was one time! The oven was broken!”

Daniel looks at her like she’s crazy. “It was on fire, Mama.”

“The oven was on fire. Not the chicken.” But she’s laughing now, and so is Daniel. “That doesn’t count.”

“What about the pasta that was so hard we couldn’t eat it?” Daniel asks innocently.

“I was distracted!” She swats at him playfully with a dish towel. “And you’re being very rude, young man.”

Daniel ducks away from the towel, still grinning. “I’m just being honest. Maks should know what he’s getting into.”

The comment is so perfectly timed and sarcastic in a way that’s pure me that I can’t help but laugh. Aria chases him around the kitchen island, both of them laughing, and I watch this glimpse of what our life could be.