Page 63 of Secret Heir

“Perfect.” I ruffle his hair. “You’re a natural.”

He grins, pleased with himself. Then his expression turns thoughtful. “Is there a Russian nickname for me?”

“There is. Danya. It’s short for Daniel, but it’s also a common Russian name.”

“Danya.” He tries it out, rolling it around his mouth. “I like it.”

That pleases me. “You can use it if you want,” I tell him. “Or stick with Daniel. Either is fine.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring at his fishing line bobbing in the water. “Since I call you Maks, you can call me Danya. Or solnyshko. If you want.”

My throat closes up and I have to look away for a moment to get my emotions under control. It’s such a small thing—permission to use endearments, to call him by a Russian diminutive. But it feels enormous.

It feels like he’s accepting me. Accepting this family. Accepting his place in it.

“I’d like that,” I manage. “Very much, solnyshko.”

He leans against my side, and I put my arm around him. We sit like that for a while, father and son, watching the water and waiting for fish to bite.

This is what I’ve been missing. This is what Aria kept from me for eight years.

And I still don’t know if I can forgive her for it.

But in this moment, with my solnyshko warm against my side and the sun on our faces, I’m willing to try.

That evening, we have dinner together like a real family. I insisted Aria join us in the dining room instead of hiding in her suite, and she agreed with visible reluctance. But once we’re settled, Daniel starts chattering about the fish he almost caught, something shifts.

Aria relaxes slightly and smiles at Daniel’s enthusiasm. She asks him to pass the bread and laughs when he butters it for her without being asked.

I watch them across the table—my son and the mother of my child—and something in my chest loosens.

This is what I want. This domestic scene, this normalcy. The three of us together, sharing a meal, sharing our day. Daniel between us, talking animatedly, his gray eyes bright with happiness.

Aria in a red tank top that brings out the warmth in her skin, her hair tumbling down her back instead of pulled back. She’s actually smiling as Daniel tells her about learning to say “solnyshko.”

“That’s what Grandma called Maks when he was little,” Daniel explains seriously. “And now Maks can call me that too. Or Danya. Because those are my Russian names.”

“Russian names.” Aria’s smile falters slightly, but she holds it. “That’s wonderful, Danny boy.”

“Dyadya Kolya says I need to learn Russian properly so I can talk to the family.” Daniel looks at me. “Can I have lessons?”

“Of course. I’ll arrange it.” I make a mental note to find a tutor. Daniel should know his family’s language.

After dinner, Daniel helps clear the table, carrying his plate to the kitchen with exaggerated care. Aria and I follow with the rest of the dishes, and I find myself acutely aware of her presence.

The kitchen is warm, smelling of the roast chicken we had for dinner and the apple pie cooling on the counter. Soft overhead lights cast everything in a golden glow and Aria is right there, so close I can smell her shampoo. It makes me want to bury my face in her hair.

She’s putting dishes in the sink, and I move to help. Suddenly we’re standing very close together. Her shoulder brushes my arm, and I feel the contact like an electric shock that goes straight through me.

“I’ve got this,” she says quietly, but her voice has that breathless quality it gets when she’s affected by my proximity. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to.” I take the dish from her hands, my fingers brushing hers. The contact is deliberate, and I see her breath catch. “We’re a family. We clean up together.”

She looks up at me, and in the warm kitchen light, she’s so beautiful it physically hurts. Dark eyes wide and vulnerable, lips slightly parted, that delicate face turned up to mine. Her cheeks are flushed—whether from the warmth of the kitchen or from my nearness, I don’t know or care.

I can see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. Her pupils are dilating and her breathing has gone shallow. She’s affected. She wants this as much as I do, even if she won’t admit it.

I should give her space. But I don’t.