Fortune's Forgotten Daughter

The scent of washable paint, old juice boxes, and cinnamon graham crackers clung to the walls like the lingering echoes of little voices. Anya Petrova crouched down beside a plastic table smeared with glitter glue and tiny fingerprints. A lopsided construction paper crown perched on her head, sliding to one side like a drunken halo.

"Okay, Kings and Queens of the Crayon Kingdom, it's cleanup time!" she declared with mock severity, wagging a glitter-dusted finger at the room full of preschoolers. Half of them groaned. The other half ignored her entirely.

Only Zoe, in the far corner with a paper butterfly clipped into her wild golden curls, hopped up with too much eagerness for a four-year-old at the end of the school day. Her eyes, unnervingly serious, scanned the room and then darted to the cubbies where something had been hidden earlier. She gave Anya a look-a conspiratorial look-and then mouthed, "Ready."

Anya blinked. "Ready for what-"

"NOW!" Zoe yelled.

Suddenly, the kids burst into song. It was mostly off-key and full of conflicting lyrics-some were singing "Happy Birthday," others had skipped to "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow," and one very enthusiastic child had opted for the opening bars of "Let It Go." But the effect was unmistakable.

Behind them, Miss Sandra emerged from the teacher's lounge, holding a card the size of a pizza box. Painted child-sized handprints formed a rainbow across the front, and written in large glitter letters were the words:

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISS ANYA!"

Anya's mouth fell open. She pulled the paper crown straight, just in time for Zoe to race forward and slam the card into her chest with the unrestrained force of love only a four-year-old can muster.

"You made this?" Anya asked, already choking back a laugh, her arms wrapping around Zoe's small frame.

"I helped," Zoe said proudly. "The red hand is mine. And the purple finger smudge."

Miss Sandra leaned against the wall with a smirk. "You're lucky we didn't let them bake you a cake. We narrowly avoided a glitter batter situation."

Anya smiled. "That's the best kind of disaster."

She took the card and flipped it open. Inside were shaky signatures, fingerpaint blobs, and one message written neatly in marker, underlined three times:

"Thank you for being our warmest light – Happy 25th, Anya. Love, Your Tiny Army."

Anya blinked hard and closed the card before her eyes betrayed her. It wasn't often she felt seen. Not like that. Not even on her birthday.

"You okay?" Sandra asked, her voice low now. Genuine.

Anya nodded. "Just... wasn't expecting it. It's been a while since I celebrated, that's all."

"Well, you've got an hour before pickup. Go take a breath. I'll watch the monsters."

"Thank you."

She slipped into the break room with Zoe in tow, card in hand. The fluorescent lights flickered a little overhead, but the hum of the old fridge and the smell of stale coffee felt comforting. Familiar. Home, almost.

Zoe climbed up on the counter like she always did, swinging her feet.

"You didn't forget, right?" Zoe asked, too casually.

"Forget what, bug?"

"It's your birthday." Zoe squinted at her. "You didn't act excited."

Anya pulled a juice box from the mini fridge and passed it to her daughter. "When you're a grown-up, birthdays are less about cake and more about surviving the day with minimal glitter-related injuries."

Zoe took a long sip, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Can I stay up late tonight?"

"Nice try," Anya said. "But yes."

Zoe beamed.

The old radiator in the apartment hissed and clanked like it was trying to start a fight. The February chill outside had nothing on the steam-stifled heat inside, but Anya didn't complain. The air smelled like over-boiled pasta and butter, and a single candle flickered in a chocolate-frosted cupcake sitting crooked on a chipped plate.

Zoe stood on a chair in a too-big apron, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

"Your birthday feast, madam!" she announced, gesturing to the table with a dramatic bow. "Macaroni à la Zoe, and dessert of smushy cake!"

Anya pressed a hand to her chest. "This is better than any five-star restaurant."

Zoe's nose wrinkled. "What's five-star?"

"It means they give you teeny tiny food and charge you fifty dollars."

Zoe squinted. "That's dumb."

"Profoundly."

They sat at the table together, plates steaming. The pasta had slightly too much butter and no salt, but Anya ate it like it was gourmet.

Zoe, ever the negotiator, jabbed her fork toward the cupcake mid-meal. "One bite before the grown-up rules?"

"One bite," Anya said.

Zoe leaned over and sank her teeth into the side of the cupcake like a wild animal. Chocolate frosting smeared across her cheek. Anya laughed, and for a moment, the day's stress unraveled. Just for a moment.

A loud knock at the door broke the quiet. Three sharp raps, impatient and deliberate.

Zoe froze. "Maybe it's Carla?"

Anya nodded, though something about the knock felt...official.

She opened the door to reveal her best friend standing in her usual Friday night armor: high ponytail, sarcastic smirk, and a bottle of red wine swinging from one hand.

"Did someone order a bad influence?" Carla asked, waltzing in like she paid rent.

"Always," Anya said, hugging her with one arm.

Carla looked at the dinner table and gasped. "Oh my God. You made carbs. On your birthday. This is serious."

"I live dangerously."

"Clearly."

Carla set the wine down and reached into her tote bag. "Here. It's nothing fancy, but I know you. You're going to pretend birthdays don't matter, so I figured I'd annoy you with a present."

Anya took the small wrapped box. "You didn't have to-"

"I know I didn't have to. That's why I did."

Inside the box was a silver charm bracelet. Simple, delicate. One charm: a book. Anya traced her thumb over it.

"You always said if your life ever slowed down, you'd write one," Carla said softly. "Now maybe you'll remember."

Anya couldn't speak for a moment. She swallowed hard.

Zoe, of course, chose that moment to loudly declare, "Mommy cried over a card today too!"

Carla laughed. "Oh, my poor sentimental trash panda."

"I am not crying."

"I mean, you were. You're basically crying now."

Anya gave her the finger. Zoe gasped.

Carla raised her brows. "Didn't even make it to the wine before the birthday breakdown. We are ahead of schedule."

They laughed. The kind of laugh that only comes after surviving too much. The kind that holds a little crack in the middle.

Outside the windows, Brooklyn buzzed with quiet life: traffic lights blinking, someone yelling in Spanish on the sidewalk, a dog barking from a rooftop. But inside the apartment, warmth pulsed like a heartbeat.

Safe. Small. The kind of night Anya never let herself hope for more than.

And just as she lifted her wineglass to toast, the knock came again.

Not Carla this time.

Not friendly.

Three slow, heavy knocks.

Zoe looked toward the door.

Anya stood, heart already turning cold.

The knocking came again-three slow thuds, heavier than the first set. Not urgent, not aggressive. Just... unshakably sure of itself.

Anya moved toward the door with the hesitation of someone sensing a shift in gravity. Behind her, Zoe whispered, "Is it another surprise?"

Carla stood up, eyes narrowed. "That knock says Armani suit, not balloon delivery."

Anya cracked the door just enough to peer out. A man stood on the other side-early forties, clean-cut, with a charcoal gray overcoat tailored to lethal precision. His gloved hands held a slim black folio. He didn't smile.

"Miss Anya Petrova?" he asked, voice cool and exact.

"Yes?"

He slid a card through the gap. Heavy stock. Silver embossed lettering.

Volkov, Fallon & Mehra - Estate Counsel

"I have a delivery requiring signature. From the late Mr. Nikolai Volkov."

Anya's hand twitched. "What? That has to be a mistake."

"I'm afraid not."

Carla appeared beside her, grabbing the card. "Volkov as in the Volkov? Shipping, oil, industrial complex, rich enough to clone dinosaurs?"

The man remained impassive. "As in the one who passed two weeks ago. You've been named in his will."

Anya felt her knees loosen slightly beneath her. "I-I didn't know him. I don't understand."

"I'm not at liberty to explain the contents, ma'am. Just to ensure delivery and acknowledgment."

He held out the folio and a sleek pen.

Carla nudged her. "Sign it."

"I-what if it's-"

"If it's fake, we report it. If it's real, you just got mail from a dead billionaire. Either way, I need you to sign it before I start making conspiracy theories about your real dad being Lex Luthor."

Anya hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the pen.

She signed.

The man nodded, handed over the envelope, and turned without ceremony.

"No questions?" Carla called after him.

"None I'm paid to answer."

The hallway door shut with a soft mechanical click.

Anya stared at the envelope as if it were ticking.

"Are you okay?" Zoe asked behind her, voice small.

"I don't know," Anya said quietly.

She looked down at the envelope. It was thick, cream-colored, formal. Her name typed in bold across the front.

No return address. Just a black wax seal with a V pressed into it.

Anya didn't open it. Not yet.

Carla gently took Zoe's hand. "Hey, squirt, how about we go brush your teeth and let Mommy have a minute?"

Zoe pouted. "But-"

"I'll tell you the story of the glitter monster."

Zoe gasped. "The real one?"

"Only the most terrifying, sparkly version."

Anya didn't hear the rest. She walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat down hard. The envelope stayed unopened in her hands.

Twenty-five minutes ago, her biggest concern was whether there was enough butter in the pasta.

Now she was holding something that felt like it had teeth.

She slid her finger beneath the seal.

The seal cracked with a brittle snap. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the cramped kitchen.

Inside the envelope was a letterhead on thick, creamy paper and a matching legal document. At the top:

VOLKOV, FALLON & MEHRA - OFFICES OF ESTATE LAW

RE: THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF NIKOLAI IVANOVICH VOLKOV

Anya stared at the name for a long second, not reading anything else. It took her a moment to realize she wasn't breathing.

The room seemed colder. Or maybe it was just her blood pulling away from the surface of her skin.

She forced herself to read.

To Miss Anya Petrova,

You are hereby notified that you have been named a legal beneficiary in the Last Will and Testament of the late Nikolai Ivanovich Volkov, deceased February 3, 20-.

The deceased has acknowledged paternity in full, as stated under section 4, clause 17 of the enclosed document.

Per the conditions of the testament, you are to inherit a personal trust fund valued at $28 million USD, contingent upon the fulfillment of the following:

Residency Requirement:

You are to reside at the Volkov residence in Manhattan for a period of no less than twelve (12) consecutive months, under the supervision and cohabitation of the named executor, Mr. Dimitri Nikolai Volkov.

Failure to comply shall void all entitlements.

Instructions for relocation and legal onboarding are attached.

She couldn't read anymore.

Carla returned from the hallway, wiping glitter off her shirt. She took one look at Anya's face and crossed the room fast.

"What? What the hell does it say?"

Anya said nothing. Just handed her the document with fingers that didn't feel like hers.

Carla skimmed. Her brows shot up.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"This isn't a mistake. He's-he was-he named you."

Anya nodded.

Carla kept reading. "...Twenty-eight million? Jesus. And you have to live with his son? The Dimitri Volkov?"

Anya's stomach twisted. "I know that name. From the ball... the Volkov gala, five years ago. The masked one."

"Wait, you went to that thing?"

"I was invited by one of the parents from the preschool. I was miserable. I left early. Mostly."

Carla stared at her, then at the papers.

"No way. Are you saying-?"

"I don't know." Anya stood up too fast. The chair screeched behind her.

She paced the narrow kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, too loud.

"I never knew him. Not really. My mother hated him. She said he tried to control her. That he made her choose between obedience and escape. So she ran."

"And now he's claiming you. From beyond the grave." Carla looked down at the paper. "And his son-Dimitri-that guy is your... what, your new roommate? That can't be legal. You're not a stray cat."

Anya grabbed the letter and pointed to the clause. "It's in here. Legal. Binding. If I don't do it, I get nothing."

"But you weren't expecting anything! You were fine before this!"

"No." Anya's voice cracked. "I wasn't fine. I was surviving. I work two jobs, Zoe's medicine keeps going up, and I haven't had a minute to think about the future in four years."

Carla went quiet.

Anya's hand dropped to the table, knuckles white around the envelope.

"I don't want to take his money," she said. "I don't want to owe him anything. Not after what he did to my mom."

"But this isn't for him," Carla said softly. "It's for Zoe."

Anya closed her eyes.

She thought of Zoe's tiny chest rising and falling in hospital rooms.

Of invoices. Of missed paychecks. Of late nights and exhaustion and pretending she wasn't scared.

She didn't want to cry in front of Carla again.

But her voice broke anyway.

"I never asked for a father."

"And now you've got a dead one," Carla said gently. "But maybe-just maybe-that bastard left you something that could change everything."

Anya didn't answer. She just sat down slowly, still holding the envelope.

Across the table, her daughter's hand-painted birthday card leaned against the salt shaker, its rainbow handprints smiling like it was all a game.

"He was never my father," Anya said at last. Her voice was flat, not hollow but taut, stretched tight like a string about to snap.

Carla leaned on the counter. "Then what was he?"

"A mistake," Anya said. "A warning. My mom only ever said his name once, and even then, her face... it changed. Like she'd tasted something sour that she couldn't spit out. I asked once if he was dead. She said, 'Not yet.'"

Carla exhaled slowly. "Still. Twenty-eight million isn't a whisper. That's a scream."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do," Carla said. "You care because you're not just Anya. You're Zoe's mom. And that little girl doesn't get a choice in this."

Anya looked at the card again. Her chest tightened.

"I'm supposed to take Zoe into that world," she murmured. "Live with him? Dimitri? The son who's probably just as cold and arrogant and controlling as his father? They're going to look at me like I don't belong. They'll treat her like a mistake."

Carla crossed the kitchen, softer now. "Then show them they're wrong."

Anya's hand shook as she pressed her palm flat on the table. "You don't understand. You've never seen those people. The way they move through the world. They walk into a room and it's like gravity bends around them. Like they don't bleed."

"But you do," Carla said. "And you're still standing."

Before Anya could answer, Zoe's soft footsteps pattered down the hall. She appeared at the edge of the kitchen, still in her oversized apron, her curls a mess, a smear of chocolate dried on one cheek.

"Mommy?" she asked. "Why are you sad?"

Anya turned, fast. She knelt down.

"I'm not sad, bug," she lied. "I'm just... thinking big thoughts."

Zoe frowned. "Did someone hurt your heart?"

The words, too innocent and too precise, hit her like a stone.

She opened her arms, and Zoe climbed into them instantly, wrapping her limbs around her mother like a vine. Anya buried her face in her daughter's hair and breathed.

Vanilla shampoo. Crayons. Childhood.

"I'm okay," Anya whispered. "I promise."

Carla watched them, quiet now. She didn't say anything more. She just picked up the wine bottle and poured another glass. This time, she drank straight from it.

Zoe wiggled in Anya's lap. "Are we still gonna eat more cake?"

Anya kissed her temple. "Yeah, baby. We'll have more cake."

She stood slowly, carrying Zoe with one arm, the letter still in the other hand.

But her eyes didn't leave the words on the page.

Live under the same roof as the named executor, Mr. Dimitri Nikolai Volkov.

The name felt like a door creaking open inside her memory. A scent, a voice, a pair of hands that had once touched her like she mattered.

And then left.

She looked at Zoe. At her eyes-those eyes.

No. It couldn't be.

Anya held her tighter.

The envelope sat on the table, heavy as fate.