All Chapters of Fortune's Forgotten Daughter: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

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 in

The black car waited at the curb like a judgment.It gleamed against the dull gray slush of Midtown, its tinted windows making it impossible to tell if anyone inside was watching her. The driver stood next to it in a charcoal suit and a cap that hadn't moved even an inch in the twenty minutes Anya had spent pacing her apartment. He hadn't knocked. Just waited. Like he knew she'd come out eventually.Anya stood on the stoop with Zoe's small backpack in one hand and her own duffel slung across her shoulder. Carla had offered to come with her. Twice. But Anya had said no.Because this had to start with just the two of them.Because even if it was a trap, she was stepping into it with eyes wide open."Is this the fancy house?" Zoe asked, gripping her mitten in Anya's hand."It's the one we talked about," Anya said gently. "We're going to stay here for a while.""Will there be macaroni?""I make no promises."The driver opened the rear door without a word.Zoe climbed in first, hoisting he

The knock came at 9:12 a.m. Not a hard knock. Not urgent. Just… precise. Anya opened the door already bracing for Ingrid, and sure enough, the housekeeper stood stiffly in the hall, hands folded like a woman delivering sentence rather than message. “Miss Petrova,” Ingrid said, her voice as neutral as the walls, “Mr. Volkov requests that you and your daughter attend a private dinner this evening. Seven o’clock. Formal.” Anya blinked. “A dinner?” “Yes. Miss Vera Volkov is visiting from the Upper East Side. She is Mr. Volkov’s aunt. And a board member.” “Is this optional?” Ingrid blinked. Once. Anya exhaled. “Right. Silly question.” The housekeeper gave a shallow nod and turned away, heels clicking once on the polished floor before vanishing like a ghost into the hall. Anya closed the door, leaning her forehead against it with a groan. Zoe popped up behind her. “Are we going to a party?” Anya turned and crouched. “Not a party. Just dinner. With someone very rich and very… sha

Dimitri stared at the screen like it might solve him. He’d never hesitated before. Never questioned the rightness of knowing. Information was power. In business, it was armor. In family, it was survival. But this wasn’t just a file. This was a four-year-old girl with curls like silk thread and eyes that tilted like his when she smiled. Zoe Petrova. Mother: Anya Petrova. Father: Not listed. The field sat there—blank, like a dare. He’d asked his legal team to run a quiet request through a pediatric contact. No flags. No alerts. The result had come back clean. Too clean. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to take the next step. A private DNA test. A discreet envelope of finality. Because he already knew. Not in numbers. In gut. And that was more dangerous than any document. Across the hall, laughter rang out. A squeal. Zoe’s voice, singing something badly off-key. He closed the file. Turned off the monitor. And didn’t breathe. Meanwhile, Anya sat cross-legged on the edge

The morning after the press conference arrived quiet and deceptive. The sky beyond the penthouse was that washed-out kind of blue that promised a pleasant day but made Anya itch. It looked too peaceful to be real. She sat at the breakfast table, stirring her tea with absent, slow circles, listening to Zoe in the other room narrating a story to her stuffed koala in shifting accents. A throat cleared. She looked up. Dimitri stood just inside the dining room, sleeves rolled, a plain black sweater in place of his usual armor of suits and cufflinks. He looked—less CEO. More man. Anya immediately didn’t trust it. “You have five seconds,” she said flatly, “before I assume you’re about to make my life harder.” “I want you to come away with me,” he said. She blinked. “You what?” He corrected, casually: “Zoe and you. Just for the weekend. Upstate. My father’s estate. It’s private. Press won’t touch it.” “Why?” “She needs air.” “And what do I need?” He studied her for a long second