His Secret Heir In Her Arms

The world tilted on its axis. The black spots in Ivana's vision grew larger, merging into a dark tunnel.

She reached out blindly for the bus stop sign, her fingers slipping on the hot metal. Her knees buckled, and she slid down to the curb, sitting on the concrete that was hot enough to fry an egg.

People walked past her. A man in a suit stepped around her legs, muttering about junkies.

Ivana wasn't a junkie. She was a mother. She was a scientist. She was starving.

Inside the Maybach, the air was a crisp sixty-eight degrees. Gannon sat in the back seat, a file open on his lap. He wasn't reading it.

He was watching the woman on the curb through his sunglasses.

She looked like a broken doll. Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the angry red mark on her cheek where Aleta had slapped her.

"Drive," Gannon said.

His driver, a burly man named Thomas, hesitated. "Sir? She looks... not good."

"She's acting," Gannon snapped. "She's a con artist, Thomas. That's what she does."

But he didn't look away.

He saw her hand trembling as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a small tin of mints.

Her fingers were clumsy. The tin slipped. It clattered onto the sidewalk and rolled, falling through the grate of a storm drain.

Ivana stared at the grate. Her shoulders slumped. It was a posture of absolute defeat.

Gannon felt a twinge in his chest. A sharp, annoying prick of conscience.

She put her head between her knees.

"She's going to pass out," Thomas said quietly.

Gannon cursed under his breath. He threw the file onto the empty seat next to him.

"Unlock the doors."

The lock clicked.

Gannon didn't get out. He couldn't. If he touched her, he might strangle her. Or worse.

"Get her," he ordered.

Thomas got out. A wave of heat rushed into the car.

Ivana felt hands on her arms. Strong, firm hands. She was too weak to fight.

"Come on, miss," a voice said.

She was lifted up. The world spun.

Next thing she knew, she was being lowered onto soft leather. The door slammed shut. The noise of the street vanished, replaced by the hum of the engine and the soft whir of the air conditioner.

She blinked, trying to focus.

She was in a car. A very expensive car.

She looked to her left.

Gannon was pressed against the far door, as if her poverty was contagious.

"Drink," he said.

He pointed to a bottle of Evian in the cup holder.

Ivana stared at the water. Her throat was sandpaper.

She reached for it. Her hand shook so much she couldn't unscrew the cap.

Gannon made a noise of impatience. He snatched the bottle from her, twisted the cap off with a sharp crack, and shoved it back into her hand.

She drank. She drank until she choked, water spilling down her chin and onto her hoodie.

Gannon watched her. His expression was unreadable behind the sunglasses.

"Slow down," he said.

Ivana lowered the bottle. She wiped her mouth.

"Thank you," she rasped.

Gannon didn't respond. He looked out the window.

Her stomach let out a loud, prolonged growl. It was a monstrous sound in the quiet cabin.

Ivana wrapped her arms around her midsection, her face burning.

Gannon turned back to her. He lowered his sunglasses.

"Skipping meals to save for your next Chanel bag?" he asked.

Ivana didn't answer. She didn't have the energy to fight him.

Gannon opened the center console. He pulled out a small, rectangular box.

He tossed it into her lap.

"Eat. I don't want you dying in my car. The paperwork would be a hassle."

Ivana looked at the box. La Maison du Chocolat.

Her heart stuttered.

It was the truffle collection. Specifically, the raspberry ganache ones.

They used to buy a box every Friday night. They would sit on his roof deck, sharing them one by one.

She looked at him. Did he remember? Or was this just his standard car snack?

She opened the box. The smell of rich dark chocolate wafted up.

She took one. She popped it into her mouth.

The sugar hit her bloodstream almost instantly. The tart raspberry, the bitter cocoa. It tasted like memories. It tasted like four years ago.

She ate another. And another.

Gannon watched her lips move. He watched a speck of chocolate adhere to the corner of her mouth.

His eyes darkened. He looked away abruptly, shifting in his seat.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

Ivana swallowed. "A motel. In Bushwick."

Gannon scoffed. "Classy."

He tapped on the partition glass. "Thomas, take us to Bushwick."

Ivana leaned back against the headrest. The sugar was helping. The dizziness was receding.

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why did you pick me up?"

Gannon didn't look at her. "Because you were making a scene. And it reflects poorly on the company if my former... whatever you were... dies on the street."

Whatever you were.

The words stung, but she accepted them.

Her phone rang.

It was loud in the silence.

She looked at the screen. Mrs. Higgins.

Panic surged. If she didn't answer, Mrs. Higgins might leave. But if she answered...

She pressed the green button, intending to put it to her ear quickly.

But her thumb slipped. She hit the speaker button.

"Mommy?"

Cohen's voice filled the car.