Page 8 of Secret Heir

The whole building reeks of poverty and smells like shit. Like mildew and something sour I can’t identify.

This is where she’s been raising my child. This shithole with its flickering lights and warped floors.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the surveillance photos again, even though I have them memorized. Every single one is burned into my brain.

Eviction notices taped to their door. Three of them over the past two years.

Overdue bills stuffed in the mailbox.

Food bank visits every Tuesday and Thursday.

Aria waiting in line with Daniel, both of them pretending not to notice the other people staring.

My son wearing a winter coat two sizes too small, the cuffs riding up to expose his wrists to the cold.

My son eating a half-frozen burrito on the church steps because there was nothing at home.

My son who should have had everything—the best schools, the best clothes, the best fucking life money could buy—wearing shoes with holes in them and going to bed hungry.

The rage is a living thing in my chest, clawing at my ribs, demanding release.

I want to destroy this place.

I want to grab Aria and shake her until she understands what she’s done.

I want to make her feel even a fraction of the pain I’ve felt for eight years.

But I don’t. Because upstairs, my son is sleeping, and I won’t be the monster that wakes him with violence.

Not yet.

I force myself to breathe. To count. To do the mental exercises my mother taught me when I was young and my temper ran hot.

Control is power, she used to say. A man who cannot master himself cannot master anything.

So I master myself. Barely.

The minutes crawl by. I check my watch. Fifteen minutes have passed. Then twenty. I’m about to go upstairs myself when I hear footsteps on the stairs.

Aria appears first.

She looks even worse in the better light of the gallery—thinner than I remember, with dark circles under her eyes that makeup can’t quite hide.

Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and there’s a hollowness to her cheeks that wasn’t there before.

Eight years ago, she was vibrant. Full of life and laughter and passion that lit her up from the inside.

She wore bright colors and danced in the gallery when she thought no one was watching.

Her hair was glossy and thick, always smelling like jasmine shampoo.

Her eyes sparkled when she talked about art and how light could transform a painting.

This woman in front of me is a shadow. A ghost wearing Aria’s face.

Her hair is still long and the same color, but it’s dull now.

Lifeless.