Page 29 of Secret Heir

Like mine.

He wants his hair cut like mine.

Not just short or neat—specifically like his father’s.

My throat closes.

I turn away slightly, pretending to look at something on my phone while I get my emotions under control. It’s such a small thing but it feels enormous.

When I glance at Aria, her face has gone white before her lips twist like she’s tasted something sour. But she swallows it down, her hands clenched in her lap, and says nothing.

Nikita gets to work. The scissors snip steadily, dark hair falling to the towel. Daniel sits very still, watching in the mirror Nikita has propped up.

When it’s done—neat and short, styled with a slight part on the left exactly like mine—I have to take a step back.

It’s like looking at a photograph of myself as a child. The same cut emphasizes the sharp Sokolov cheekbones, the strong brow, the aristocratic bone structure that’s unmistakably Russian.

Without the longer hair softening his features, Daniel looks less like Aria and more like every Sokolov man I’ve ever known.

Aria has gone very quiet. Her eyes slide between Daniel and me, back and forth, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

She’s finally understanding that there’s no denying this child is mine. Every line of his face screams Sokolov heritage.

“What do you think?” Daniel asks, turning in the chair to look at me. His voice is anxious and uncertain. “Do you like it?”

I crouch down so we’re eye level and my eyes burn. “You look very handsome,” I manage. “Very grown up.”

His face lights up with that rare smile, and I have to look away again before he sees how much this affects me.

“You do look handsome, sweetheart,” Aria adds, her voice carefully controlled. She reaches out to touch his newly cut hair, and I see her hand trembling slightly. “Very handsome.”

Daniel grins and runs to look at himself properly in the bathroom mirror. The moment he’s gone, the tension in the room becomes suffocating. Nikita notices and he quickly cleans up and is out the door.

Aria stares at me, and I stare back. Neither of us says what we’re both thinking—that our son just chose to look like me. That he’s claiming his place in this family. There’s no going back from this.

Finally, she looks away.

The next morning, I take Daniel fishing.

There’s a pond on the south edge of the property, stocked with bass and sunfish. I grab two rods from the garage and a tackle box, and we walk down together in the cool morning air.

Daniel is wearing new clothes that actually fit. His jeans are the appropriate length, and he wears a dinosaur shirt with a light North Face jacket over it.

His boots are brand new and without holes. With his fresh haircut, he looks like a different child from the one who arrived less than a week ago. He’s still too thin and wary, but he’s cleaner and better fed.

At the pond, I bait his hook and show him how to cast.

The rod is almost too big for him, but he manages, his face scrunched in concentration as he watches the line arc through the air and land in the water with a soft plop.

“Now we wait,” I tell him.

“For how long?”

“However long it takes.” I cast my own line, smiling at his dismayed face. “Fishing is about patience.”

We sit on the dock with our feet dangling over the edge. The sun is warm, the water is calm, and for a few minutes it’s almost peaceful.

Then Daniel speaks. “Are we rich now?”