Page 33 of Obsessive Vows

"And you didn't think to inform me of this... health concern?" His voice holds that dangerous edge I've learned to fear—the tone that precedes violence when used with his subordinates.

"It seemed minor." I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly as showing weakness would only increase his suspicion. "I didn't want to trouble you with trivialities when you're handling the Odessa situation."

The reference to current Bratva business creates the desired effect—a slight shift in his focus from my condition to the organization's larger concerns.

"What did Kuznetsov say?"

"Likely a minor virus. Possibly from the Metropol dinner." I allow a hint of annoyance to color my tone. "Several others reported similar symptoms."

His eyes narrow slightly. "I received no reports of food contamination."

"Karim mentioned it when we spoke yesterday," I reply smoothly, referencing the restaurant owner who owes my father significant favors. "He's investigating internally, wanting to resolve it before bringing it to your attention."

The lie flows easily, building on established relationships and reasonable assumptions. My father values competent problem-solving among his subordinates, preferring they handle minor issues without involving him.

"Hmm." His gaze remains assessing, but the dangerous edge recedes slightly. "You'll recover quickly. The Geneva application requires medical clearance."

The casual reference to my Switzerland proposal startles me. "You've considered it then?"

"Konstantin is reviewing security." He steps aside, gesturing for me to precede him down the hallway. "We'll discuss details once your... health issue... is resolved."

Relief makes my steps unsteady as we leave the clinic. Not approval yet, but not rejection either. And more importantly, no suspicion about the true nature of my "illness."

As we reach the parking area where separate vehicles await us, my father pauses. "Anastasia."

"Yes, Father?"

"Take care of your health." His voice holds no warmth, only pragmatic concern. "Your mother's fragile constitution caused... complications. I expect you to manage yourself better."

The reference to my mother—who died from what people think were complications during my brother's birth —sends ice through my veins. The official story released was that she “died” in a car accident. Another reminder that in my father's world, women are valuable only if they function as expected.

"Of course, Father," I answer quietly. "I understand."

The week passes in agonizing slowness. Dr. Kuznetsov calls with blood results that show mild anemia and vitamin deficiency—exactly the conditions Dr. Petrova arranged to appear in my tests. Nothing to indicate pregnancy.

Meanwhile, I devote every private moment to researching and planning. The International Diplomatic Academy's application requires extensive documentation, academic credentials, and letters of recommendation. I gather these methodically, constructing a narrative of passionate interest in international relations and diplomatic strategy.

Not entirely false—I've always been fascinated by the intricate dance of global politics. But now this interest serves a more urgent purpose.

I also research private clinics in Geneva, secure housing options outside regular Bratva territories, and financial arrangements that won't trigger my father's monitoring systems. Each element must connect seamlessly to create an unassailable cover story.

Throughout it all, morning sickness persists despite Dr. Petrova's remedies. I become expert at hiding sudden nausea, at explaining pallor as work-related fatigue, at maintaining perfect composure while internally battling waves of physical distress.

On Friday morning, I request a formal meeting with my father. Not in his study where business is usually conducted, but in the small sitting room where he occasionally entertains political connections. A neutral territory, a public setting that might moderate his response.

"This must be important," he observes as I enter, already seated in his preferred armchair. "You've never requested a formal appointment before."

"It is important, Father." I take the chair opposite him, back straight, portfolio of materials in my lap. Every detail of my appearance has been perfectly arranged for this moment—conservative but fashionable business attire, subtle makeup to hide the pallor of morning sickness, hair styled in a sophisticated chignon that suggests seriousness of purpose.

"I was hoping we could agree on the Switzerland opportunity. I’m feeling much better since my visit to Dr. Kuznetsov. It’s a good educational opportunity to complement my increased responsibilities in our European operations," I begin, opening the portfolio to display the academy's prestigious materials. "The International Diplomatic Academy in Geneva offers an exclusive program in Strategic International Relations beginning in January."

My father's expression remains inscrutable as I outline the program's benefits—international connections, diplomatic training, intelligent positioning within European political structures. All framed in terms of advantage to the Markov organization rather than personal development.

"Nine months is a significant commitment," he notes, examining the brochure I've provided. "Your work here would suffer."

"On the contrary." I slide forward the detailed proposal I've prepared. "This presents an opportunity to establish stronger footholds in neutral territory. Swiss banking relationships, diplomatic connections, legitimate business fronts—all valuable assets for our organization's Western European expansion."

He studies the document with the careful attention he gives all business proposals. I wait in silence, heart thundering behind my composed exterior.

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