Page 110 of Secret Heir

“Alright, alright.” I ruffle his hair, smiling as he scowls at me. “I’ll get your ball before I leave. But you need to work on this spider fear, buddy. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That’s what Mama says but I don’t believe her.” He grins, crisis averted. “Thanks, Maks! You’re the best!”

He scampers off, probably to find Aria and tell her about the spider rescue mission, and I bask in my son believing I’m the best. I just wish he would call me Papa. But it’s going to be soon. I can feel it.

Mrs. Ivanova appears with a plate of eggs and toast. “You should eat something before you go, Mr. Sokolov.”

I shake my head. “No time. I’ll grab something in the city.”

She gives me that look—the one that says she thinks I’m not taking care of myself—but doesn’t argue. I’ve learned that staff who’ve been with the family for years develop a certain mothering instinct that transcends professional boundaries.

I’m checking my phone to confirm a text from Stephen with our meeting location when Aria appears. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts and sleep shorts, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, and she looks rumpled and beautiful.

“You’re leaving already?” She crosses to me, and I pull her into my arms.

“I’ll be back by two. Three at the latest.” I press a kiss to her hair. “Stay inside today. Don’t go near the garden or anywhere Alexander could access.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She looks up at me, and there’s fear in her dark eyes. “Just…be careful. Please.”

“I will.” I cup her face in my hands and kiss her properly this time, relishing I can do this. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I make myself pull away before I decide to cancel the meeting and stay here with her instead. This is too important. Whatever Stephen found could be the key to building an airtight case against Alexander.

When I walk outside, Len has already pulled the primary SUV out front. It’s a black Escalade, engine running, gleaming in the morning sun. It’s the newer of our two vehicles, the one we usually use for city trips.

The backup SUV—also an Escalade, but three years older—is still in the garage and has Daniel’s ball stuck under it.

I’m walking toward the idling vehicle when something catches my eye.

There are bird droppings right in the center of the windshield. A white splatter against the dark glass, stark and impossible to miss.

I stop walking.

My mother’s voice echoes in my head, clear as if she’s standing beside me: “Bird poop on the windshield before a journey? Bad luck, Maksimilian. Never ignore the signs.”

It’s superstitious nonsense. My mother had been full of old Russian superstitions—don’t whistle indoors, don’t shake hands over a threshold, always sit for a moment before leaving on a trip, don’t step over someone lying down, keep a red ribbon on a newborn baby. The list was endless.

But this one she’d been adamant about. Bird droppings before a journey meant danger. Accident. Death.

I’d dismissed it as an old woman’s paranoia when I was young. I rolled my eyes when she’d refuse to let my father leave for a meeting because a bird had shit on the car. But she’d been insistent and made me promise as a child that I’d never ignore such warnings.

“Promise me, Maksimilian. Promise your mama. If you see bird droppings on your car before a trip, don’t go. Wait. Take a different car. The universe is warning you.”

I’d promised because I was a child and I would have promised her anything. And then I’d forgotten about it for thirty plus years.

Until now.

I stare at the white splatter, and something in my gut twists. It’s completely irrational. Birds shit on cars all the time. It means nothing.

But I can’t shake the feeling.

“Bring out the backup vehicle,” I tell Len. “I’ll take that one instead.”

Len looks confused, glancing from me to the perfectly good SUV idling in front of us. “Sir, this one’s ready to go.”

“I don’t want to drive with bird shit on my windshield,” I say sharply. “Just bring out the other one.”