10. Anastasia
10
ANASTASIA
THREE MONTHS LATER
G eneva greets me with crystalline sunlight reflecting off pristine snow-capped mountains, the air so clean it almost hurts to breathe after Moscow's industrial haze. Even in January, there's a brightness here that seems foreign after a lifetime in Russia's perpetual gray—as if someone has suddenly adjusted the contrast on a dimmed television screen.
The apartment my father's people secured sits in Champel, an elegant residential district far enough from the diplomatic quarter to avoid casual encounters with Russian officials, yet close enough to the International Diplomatic Academy to maintain my cover story. Five rooms of understated luxury with southward-facing windows that flood the space with light I've been starved for all my life.
I stand at those windows now, watching early morning sunlight glitter across Lake Geneva while sipping the herbal tea that's replaced my beloved coffee—one of many adjustments these past three months. My hand drifts to the small but unmistakable curve of my stomach, still concealed beneath loose sweaters but increasingly difficult to hide.
Five months pregnant, halfway through this dangerous charade.
The secure tablet on my desk chimes with an incoming message—Lena's weekly check-in, routed through three separate proxy servers and encrypted with protocols that would impress even my father's cybersecurity team. I scan the contents quickly, extracting essential information from her deliberately casual wording.
Fashion Week was dreadful this year. Your father hosted the usual reception—Sokolov asked about your studies twice. The Italian delegation mentioned seeing you in Rome last month (handled—told them you're on academy travel rotation). New security chief reviewing all European protocols, including Switzerland. Might want to redecorate soon.
Code for: expect increased scrutiny, possible surveillance adjustments. I delete the message after committing the details to memory, then systematically wipe the device's cache. Constant vigilance has become second nature these past months—one careless moment could collapse everything.
The doorbell chimes unexpectedly, sending a jolt of adrenaline through me. I glance at the security monitor—Anna, my arranged midwife and now live-in "language tutor," stands at the entrance with grocery bags. Not an emergency then, but her early return suggests a change in routine.
I open the door, noting her slightly pinched expression—the subtle signal we established for potential concerns.
"Good morning, Miss Markov," she says formally in French, continuing our pretense for any listening devices. "I hope I didn't wake you. The market was unusually busy, so I completed the shopping early."
"Not at all," I respond in the same language, helping her with the bags. "I've been reviewing my diplomatic theory notes since dawn."
Once inside the kitchen, she turns on the faucet—background noise to confuse any surveillance—and speaks softly. "Dmitri's security team arrived at the Metropole hotel last night. Unscheduled. I saw them while passing through the lobby."
Cold dread washes through me. Dmitri Volkov, my father's most trusted security captain, has no legitimate reason to be in Geneva without prior notification. His presence can only mean one thing—increased suspicion requiring direct intervention rather than local assets.
"How many?" I ask, mind already calculating options.
"Four that I recognized. Likely more." Anna methodically unpacks groceries, our mundane actions masking the urgency of our conversation. "They were questioning staff about diplomatic academy students."
I force myself to continue breathing normally. "Timing?"
"Could be routine verification. Could be—" She hesitates.
"Someone talked," I finish for her. The fragile network protecting my secret requires absolute loyalty from several people—Dr. Petrova in Moscow, Anna here in Geneva, administrative contacts at the academy who adjust my attendance records during medical appointments.
"We don't know that," Anna cautions. "But we need to prepare for inspection. Everything must align perfectly."
The diplomatic academy has a formal reception scheduled tomorrow evening—representatives from major European powers discussing security cooperation. As a student focusing on European political integration, my attendance is not just expected but required. A perfect opportunity for Dmitri to verify my condition in person.
"I need to see Dr. Rousseau today," I decide, referring to my Swiss obstetrician. "The formal reception dress needs adjustments."
Anna nods, understanding my real concern. At twenty weeks, I need professional advice on safely concealing my pregnancy for a high-profile public appearance.
"I'll make the arrangements," she responds, completing our outwardly normal morning routine.
* * *
Dr. Rousseau's private clinic occupies a discreet building near the old town, its medical nature hidden behind the facade of a wellness center catering to the international elite. The perfect cover for treating the pregnant daughter of a Bratva leader.
"Your measurements are progressing normally," Dr. Rousseau observes, reviewing my chart. Tall and elegant with silver-streaked dark hair, she exudes the quiet competence that initially convinced me to trust her with my secret. "Twenty weeks exactly today. Would you like to know the gender?"
The question catches me off-guard. In the chaos of maintaining this deception, I've scarcely allowed myself to consider such normal aspects of pregnancy.
"You can tell already?"
She smiles gently. "With reasonable certainty, yes. Many mothers find it helps them connect more specifically with the baby. But it's entirely your choice."
Connection. The clinical term for the bewildering emotions that occasionally ambush me during quiet moments—when I catch myself wondering if the child will have Viktor's striking gray eyes or my stubborn chin, when I find myself humming lullabies my mother sang before her death.
"Yes," I decide suddenly. "I'd like to know."
Dr. Rousseau's smile widens. "You're having a daughter."
A daughter. The word resonates through me with unexpected power. Not just an abstract baby, but a little girl. Someone who will face the same challenges I have in the Bratva world, if I don't create a different path for her.
"Now," Dr. Rousseau continues, "regarding tomorrow's event. You're at a challenging stage for concealment—not yet obviously pregnant to strangers, but noticeable to anyone paying careful attention."
"And my father's security chief will be paying very careful attention," I confirm.
She nods thoughtfully. "I've worked with diplomats and public figures in similar situations. With proper garment selection and posture management, we can minimize visibility. The more significant concern is your physical symptoms."
"The fatigue is manageable," I begin, but she interrupts with gentle authority.
"I'm referring to fetal movement. First-time mothers typically notice quickening between eighteen and twenty-two weeks. Many describe the sensation as quite startling initially—like butterflies or bubbles. In public settings, your instinctive reaction could reveal everything."
"Has it started already?" I ask, realizing I've felt occasional fluttering sensations I'd attributed to nerves.
"Almost certainly. The coming week is when most women become consciously aware of it." She leans forward, her expression serious. "Anastasia, this is medically significant. When you feel her move, your body will release hormones triggering visible physiological responses—pupils dilating, facial flushing, sometimes an audible gasp. Natural maternal reactions that security professionals are trained to notice."
Another complication I hadn't anticipated. "How do I control this?"
"Practice. Awareness." She hands me a small device resembling a compact. "This delivers a mild vibration against your skin, simulating early fetal movement. Spend today conditioning yourself not to react visibly when you feel it."
I take the device, determination replacing anxiety. Another problem to solve, another layer of deception to perfect. My existence now comprises an intricate web of falsehoods—attendance records showing perfect participation in lectures I sometimes miss for medical appointments, carefully edited reports to my father highlighting diplomatic connections that exist primarily on paper, appearances at public functions to maintain my cover.
"There's one more thing," Dr. Rousseau says, retrieving an envelope from her desk. "Your latest ultrasound images. Many patients find them... meaningful."
Inside are several black-and-white photos showing increasingly clear details of my daughter. Unlike the amorphous blob from my first scan in Moscow, these images reveal distinctly human features—the curve of a spine, the perfect oval of her head, tiny hands with five visible fingers.
Something shifts inside me—not physically, but emotionally—as I trace the outline of her profile with my fingertip. For months, I've approached this pregnancy primarily as a crisis to manage, a secret to protect. The tactical challenge has overshadowed the fundamental reality: I'm creating a person.
"She's perfect," I whisper, surprising myself with the thickness in my voice.
Dr. Rousseau smiles gently. "Yes, she is. All your tests indicate excellent development. Would you like to hear her heartbeat before you go?"
I nod, suddenly eager for this connection, this moment of authenticity amid so many carefully constructed lies.
The steady galloping rhythm fills the room—faster than an adult heartbeat, strong and insistent. Alive. My daughter, announcing her presence with unmistakable determination.
And then—a flutter inside me, distinct and undeniable. Not nerves or imagination, but her response to the sound of her own heart, to her mother's attention.
My hand flies to my abdomen, tears springing unbidden to my eyes. Dr. Rousseau watches knowingly.
"That's exactly the reaction you'll need to control tomorrow," she says softly. "But for now, allow yourself this moment. It's important."
The fluttering continues, like butterfly wings against my insides—delicate yet impossibly strong. My daughter, making her presence known.
In that moment, something crystallizes within me—a fierce, primal resolve that transcends the determination that's guided me these past months. This isn't just about escaping my father's control or creating space for my own choices. It's about her. About ensuring she never knows the suffocating constraints of Bratva life, never becomes currency in power exchanges between brutal men.
I will give her what I never had: freedom.
* * *
The reception hall of the International Diplomatic Academy blazes with chandeliers and the subdued wealth of the diplomatic corps. Crystal glassware clinks, multilingual conversations flow, and the subtle dance of international politics plays out across the marble floor. Under normal circumstances, I would find the environment fascinating—a practical application of theoretical frameworks I've studied since childhood.
Tonight, all my attention focuses on maintaining the perfect posture that minimizes my silhouette, on holding the champagne glass I never sip from, on controlling my expressions when my daughter decides to punctuate key diplomatic statements with her newly discovered ability to kick.
"Miss Markov." Dmitri's voice behind me sends ice through my veins despite my preparation. "What a pleasant surprise."
I turn, face composed in the polite mask of diplomatic engagement. "Dmitri Alexeyevich. I wasn't aware you were in Geneva."
His eyes—cold and assessing as all my father's men—scan me with professional thoroughness. "Routine security review. Your father insists on regular verification of all European assets."
The deliberate word choice—assets, not operations—underscores how my father categorizes me. Not daughter, not person. Property to be monitored, investment to be protected.
"How conscientious of him," I respond with practiced lightness. "Though surely a phone call would have sufficed to confirm my welfare."
"Perhaps." Dmitri's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "But visual confirmation provides details electronic communication cannot. You look... well."
The slight pause contains volumes of meaning. I've prepared for this scrutiny, dressed in an expertly tailored black evening gown with architectural elements that distract from my changing body. Anna arranged my hair in an elaborate style that draws attention upward, away from my midsection.
"The Swiss air agrees with me," I reply smoothly. "And the academic environment is intellectually stimulating. My latest report to Father detailed the valuable connections I've established with the Belgian diplomatic contingent."
Dmitri's gaze remains calculating. "Yes, he mentioned your thoroughness. Though he was surprised you declined the Moscow visit during winter break."
A trap, carefully laid. No winter break was scheduled—a test to verify my supposed academic obligations.
"The intensive language modules run continuously," I counter without hesitation. "Missing three weeks would have compromised my standing in the program. Father agreed the diplomatic connections were more valuable than a brief family reunion."
My daughter chooses this precise moment to execute what feels like a somersault, the sensation so sudden and distinct that I must employ every ounce of control not to react visibly. Dr. Rousseau's practice sessions prove their worth as I maintain my composed expression despite the internal commotion.
"Indeed." Dmitri sips his champagne, eyes never leaving my face. "Still, he worries about you here alone. Perhaps I should remain in Geneva for a few weeks, provide closer security."
The implied threat lands precisely as intended. Extended surveillance would make maintaining my secret nearly impossible as my pregnancy advances.
"How thoughtful," I respond with a smile that matches his for insincerity. "Though my schedule is rather demanding. Mostly lectures and library research—hardly requiring Bratva security protocols."
Before he can respond, I spot my opportunity—Professor Lemieux approaching, the program director whose support has been instrumental in adjusting my academic requirements around medical necessities.
"Dmitri, you must meet Professor Lemieux," I say, gesturing elegantly. "His insights on Eastern European security cooperation would interest Father greatly."
The introduction accomplishes multiple objectives—prevents further private conversation, demonstrates my legitimate academic engagement, and provides a witness to our interaction who can later confirm my active participation in program activities.
As they exchange pleasantries, I excuse myself with practiced grace, navigating toward the ladies' room where Anna waits with the emergency kit we prepared—anti-nausea medication, compression garments to readjust if needed, and the secure phone for contacting Dr. Rousseau if complications arise.
"He's suspicious," I murmur in French as she helps adjust my dress. "Not certain, but definitely suspicious."
Anna nods grimly. "We need to accelerate the contingency plan."
The contingency—relocating to the private chalet in Verbier we secured through Dr. Rousseau's connections, ostensibly for an intensive thesis research retreat. The move would limit my public appearances during the most visible final months but requires careful documentation to satisfy my father's monitoring.
"Not yet," I decide. "Moving too quickly confirms his suspicions. We maintain normal patterns for at least two more weeks."
My daughter kicks again, stronger this time, as if registering her objection. Soon, very soon, such deceptions will become impossible as my body reveals the truth no careful styling can conceal.
But tonight, I've won another small victory in this dangerous game—maintained the facade before the most critical observer, created another day of safety for my daughter.
As I return to the reception, Dmitri watches from across the room, his gaze carrying the weight of unspoken questions. Whatever he reports to my father will determine our next moves in this elaborate chess match where my daughter's future hangs in the balance.
And somewhere in this world, Viktor remains unaware that he's created a daughter who announces her existence with butterfly kicks against my ribs—a daughter who deserves better than the Bratva legacy that awaits her if my deception fails.