Page 2 of Obsessive Vows

"Good. Call me tomorrow." The line goes dead before I can respond.

I place the phone face-down on the table and drain my champagne in a single swallow, welcoming the burn. The ever-present ache between my shoulder blades intensifies—the phantom weight of expectations impossible to escape, even here.

Two days ago, in his study, I'd stood before him with my hands clasped behind my back to hide their trembling. The heavy scent of his cigars had filled the room, mingling with the leather of his chairs and the faint metallic smell that seemed to follow him everywhere—the scent of fear, perhaps, or power. Or blood.

"Paris? Alone?" he'd asked, as if I'd suggested swimming the Atlantic naked. "Absolutely not."

I'd stood my ground, a rare occurrence. "I'm twenty-three, Father. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked. Surely, I’ve earned this small reward."

"Age is irrelevant." He'd circled his massive oak desk, looming over me despite my height. The floorboards had creaked beneath his weight, each step a reminder of his physical dominance. "You are a Markov. There are people who would use you to get to me."

"I'll be careful. Low profile. No one will know who I am."

His laugh had been cold, dismissive. "You think our enemies don't watch? You think they don't recognize the daughter of Mikhail Markov, even in designer sunglasses?"

I'd switched tactics then, speaking his language. "Consider it a business trip. I can make contact with our French associates, strengthen those relationships."

"The French don't respect women in business." He'd waved away the idea like an annoying insect. "Especially not unmarried ones."

The barb had struck its target with perfect precision. At twenty-three, I remained conspicuously single, though not for lack of offers. Father had rejected every potential suitor as unworthy of the Markov bloodline—or more accurately, unworthy of the power that would come with claiming me.

"Then I'll go as a tourist. See the museums. Improve my French." I'd softened my voice, deploying the doe-eyed look that occasionally worked with him. "Please, Father. One week. I've never asked for anything like this before."

It was true. I'd been the perfect daughter, accepting every restriction, every demand, every sacrifice with outward grace. Harvard acceptance letter burned without being opened. Potential friendships severed the moment he deemed them unsuitable. Endless lessons in everything from economics to firearms, preparing me for a role I'd never wanted.

His silence had stretched, heavy with calculation.

"One week," he'd finally said. "You'll stay at the George V. I’ll see to it that Dmitri will?—"

"No." I'd interrupted him, something I never did. "No security detail. That defeats the purpose."

His eyes had narrowed dangerously. "The purpose?"

"Of appearing as a normal tourist. Bodyguards attract attention." I'd held my breath, watching his face for the signs of fury I knew too well—the slight whitening around his lips, the tightening of his jawline that preceded explosions that made grown men cower.

Instead, after a long moment, he'd nodded once. "One week. Daily check-ins. And when you return, Nastya, we have important matters to discuss about your future. Your biggest responsibility to this family."

The familiar dread had pooled in my stomach at those words, but I'd forced a smile. "Thank you, Father."

Now, standing on my balcony overlooking Paris, that dread resurfaces, expanding like a bloodstain. "Important matters" can only mean one thing—he's finally selected a husband for me. Some aging, brutal captain in his organization, or the son of a rival Bratva leader to cement an alliance. My body and bloodline, bartered like commodities on the black market he controls.

A memory surfaces, unbidden—my mother's face, pale and determined in the soft light of my childhood bedroom. I must have been twelve, just beginning to understand the world we inhabited. She had knelt before me, her jasmine perfume enveloping us in a private cocoon as she'd clasped my hands in hers.

"Listen carefully, Nastya," she'd whispered, her eyes darting to the door as if expecting interruption. "In our world, a woman's greatest weapon is not beauty or charm, but observation. Watch everything. Note the exits. Identify threats before they identify you. Your awareness may one day be all that stands between you and peril."

I'd nodded solemnly, not fully understanding then the weight of her warning. Only years later, after the "accident" that took her life, did I realize she'd been preparing me—not just for the general dangers of Bratva life, but for specific threats she must have sensed gathering around her.

I shake my head, enough of Moscow's shadows or my mother's ghost darkening my first night of freedom. Tonight, I will be just Anastasia—not Markov, not Bratva, not anyone's possession.

The concierge mentioned a jazz club nearby, the kind of place real Parisians frequent. No oligarchs, no gangsters, no one who might recognize the daughter of Russia's most feared man.

On impulse, I go to the closet, bypassing the designer gowns Father's staff packed. Instead, I pull out items I smuggled in my personal bag—a simple black dress, more daring than anything I'd wear in Moscow, and heeled boots that will let me dance until dawn if I choose.

Twenty minutes later, I study my reflection. Hair loose instead of elegantly styled. Makeup bolder around the eyes, lips stained deep red. Gold Markov signet ring removed and locked in the room safe.

For once, I look like myself—whoever that might be.

As I leave the hotel, stepping into the warm Parisian night, the city envelops me in a symphony of sensations—the yeasty scent of fresh baguettes from a late-night bakery, the distant strains of an accordion, the musical cadence of French conversations floating around me, so different from the clipped, guarded tones of Bratva gatherings.

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