5. Aria
ARIA
Four weeks.
Four weeks of watching my son bloom like a flower that’s finally been given sun and water and room to grow, and I’m drowning.
Daniel has gained weight.
Maybe about five pounds, but it’s enough that his ribs don’t show anymore and his face has filled out.
He’s stopped hoarding food and hiding it for later.
Now he eats meals without fear, goes back for seconds without guilt, and leaves food on his plate because he knows there will be more.
He laughs. God, he laughs.
They’re full belly laughs that I haven’t heard in a long time, before poverty ground us down into survival mode.
He runs through the house with energy he never had before and plays with his toys without that careful, worried expression that used to break my heart.
He’s thriving.
And I’m suffocating.
Every morning, Daniel wakes up asking where Maksim is.
Every afternoon, he follows his father around like a shadow, soaking up attention and stories like a plant that’s been dying of thirst.
Every evening at dinner, all he talks about is what he and Maksim did that day.
“Maksim taught me how to saddle Ranger by myself,” he announces tonight, shoveling roasted chicken into his mouth.
We eat in the formal dining room now as Daniel insisted.
He said he wanted to eat “like a real family,” and the table that could seat twelve feels cavernous with just the three of us.
“And he said next week I can try riding alone in the paddock if I practice more.”
“That’s wonderful, baby.” I force enthusiasm into my voice, forcing my lips into a smile.
“And we went to the stables and Maksim let me help feed all the horses, and Viktor taught me some Russian words.”
Daniel grins at Maksim, who’s sitting at the head of the table like a king surveying his domain.
He’s wearing dark slacks and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and even now, even hating him as much as I do, I can’t deny how unfairly handsome he is.
The way the shirt pulls across his broad shoulders, the strong column of his throat, the way his forearms flex when he reaches for his wine glass.
“I can count to ten in Russian. Want to hear?”
“Of course.” Maksim’s voice is warm when he speaks to Daniel. Only to Daniel. When he looks at me, his gray eyes are cold as winter.
There’s no trace of the man who used to smile at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
Eight years ago, Maksim looked at me like I was something worth protecting and cherishing.
His eyes would soften when I walked into a room, and he’d pull me close just to breathe me in.
He’d laugh at my terrible jokes about art history and bring me coffee exactly how I liked it without being asked.
He’d tell me I was beautiful and that he’d never felt this way about anyone.
That man is gone.
This Maksim is all hard edges and controlled fury, and the only softness I ever see from him is reserved for our son.
Daniel rattles off numbers in Russian, his pronunciation clumsy but earnest.
Maksim corrects him gently, and Daniel repeats the words with fierce concentration.
I should be happy.
I should be grateful that my son finally has enough, has a father who’s present and attentive. He has the stability I could never give him.
Instead, I feel like I’m being erased.
Every smile Daniel gives Maksim feels like one less for me.
Every story about their day together is a reminder that I failed to give him these experiences.
Every time Daniel chooses to sit next to Maksim instead of me, every time he asks “where’s Maksim?” before “where’s Mama?”—it’s another small death.
I’m slowly being replaced and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Aria.” Maksim’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and commanding. “Daniel asked you a question.”
I blink and focus on my son, who’s looking at me expectantly with those gray Sokolov eyes. “I’m sorry, Danny boy. What did you say?”
“I asked if you want to come watch me ride tomorrow.” His eyes are bright with hope. “Maksim—I mean, sir says I’m getting really good.”
Maksim’s jaw tightens. “Daniel. What did I tell you about calling me that?”
Daniel’s face falls. “Not to. But I don’t know what else to call you.”
“I’m your father.” Maksim’s voice is patient, but I can hear the frustration underneath. “I’m not a drill sergeant.”
Daniel looks confused, chewing on his bottom lip. “What’s a drill sergeant?”
“Someone in the military who—” Maksim stops and shakes his head, exhaling. “Never mind. Just…not sir. Okay?”
“Okay.” Daniel nods, but he doesn’t offer an alternative. He turns back to me. “So will you come watch?”
“I’d love to.” Another forced smile. “Of course I’ll come.”
“You don’t have to if you’re busy,” Maksim says impassively. But I hear the dig underneath. You’re not needed. We’re fine without you.
“I’m not busy.” I meet his eyes across the table, and I see my own reflection in those cold gray depths. I don’t like what I see. I’m inadequate and failing. “I have nothing but time, remember? Since I’m locked in this house.”
“You have access to the entire estate.” His voice is still pleasant, but there’s steel underneath. The flickering candlelight catches on his sharp cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw, making him look almost cruel. “Forty acres. The pool. The stables. The gardens. Hardly a prison.”
“A gilded cage is still a cage,” I retort, fingers curling tightly around my water glass.
“Mama.” Daniel’s voice is small and worried, looking back and forth between us with trepidation. “Please don’t fight.”
The guilt hits immediately and I reach for his hand across the table. “We’re not fighting, Danny. We’re just talking.” My eyes cut to Maksim and he watches the interaction carefully.
“You’re always just talking.” He pulls his hand away, and the rejection stings. “And it always sounds like fighting.”
I bite my lip. He’s not wrong.
Every interaction Maksim and I have dissolves into cutting remarks and barely concealed hostility.
We can’t be in the same room for five minutes without the tension becoming unbearable.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “You’re right. I’ll do better.”
Daniel nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.
He goes back to his dinner, chattering to Maksim about something else, and I’m left sitting there feeling like a ghost in my own son’s life.
I try to do better. I really do.
But the fights with Maksim are getting worse. And they’re happening frequently.
The first one usually starts when he brings breakfast.
He’s always impeccably dressed in tailored clothes and makes some comment about how Daniel is finally getting proper nutrition.
There will be other snide comments when I try to help Daniel with reading and Maksim implies I’m not qualified. Other arguments happen when Daniel goes to bed and we’re left alone with nothing but anger between us.
“He asked about what school he’ll be going to in the fall,” Maksim says one evening. We’re in the sitting room of my suite—also known as my prison—and he’s standing by the window with a glass of vodka.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt that hugs his muscular frame in ways that make it hard to concentrate on hating him.
The setting sun behind him catches the gray in his dark hair, and for a moment I remember what it felt like when that hair was darker and I thought I knew him. “I told him we’d look into private tutors.”
My hands tighten around my book. “He needs to be around other children.” I don’t look up from the book I’m pretending to read. “He needs socialization.”
“He needs stability first. He’s only been here a month.”
“He’s had stability. With me. For seven years.”
“Stability?” Maksim’s laugh is harsh. He turns from the window, and the light behind him silhouettes his powerful build—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the body of a man built for violence.
“Is that what you call moving every few months? Changing schools three times in two years? Living in apartments so small he didn’t have his own bedroom? ”
“We did what we had to do.” I slam the book closed. “And he was fine.”
“He was not fine.” He takes a step closer, and I can see the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his full lips press into a hard line.
His achingly familiar cologne of cedar and leather swirls around me.
“He was hoarding food and going hungry and wearing shoes with holes. He couldn’t even swim, Aria.
What seven-year-old doesn’t know how to swim? ”
“One whose mother couldn’t afford swim lessons.” I’m fighting to keep my voice down. “One whose mother was too busy working three jobs to keep a roof over their heads.”
“One whose mother was too stubborn to ask for help.” He sets his glass down with controlled precision. “One whose mother decided poverty was preferable to swallowing her pride.”
I grit my teeth. “We managed,” I repeat. “We survived.”
“Surviving isn’t living.” He moves closer, and I can see the anger in the set of his shoulders, and the tension in his jaw.
“And you kept him barely surviving when he could have been thriving. He should have been learning languages, traveling, attending the best schools. He should have been learning about his culture, and his family’s history.
” Maksim’s lip curls. “Instead, he was learning what it feels like to be hungry.”
He never fucking stops, does he? Does he not know how much I’ve thought about all that? “He learned what it means to be strong,” I counter. “To be resilient. To—”
“To hoard food in his pockets?” Maksim’s voice is deadly quiet now.
“To offer his mother half a stale sandwich because he’s learned there’s not enough for both of them?
” I stiffen and Maksim smirks coldly. “Oh yes, Aria. I know all about that. That’s not strength, Aria.
That’s trauma. That’s what happens when a child grows up with scarcity. ”
I can feel heat on my cheeks, but I refuse to back down. I lift my chin. “I did the best I could—”