Page 31 of Obsessive Vows

"Of course." She gestures to an examination chair. "Shall we confirm your condition first?"

The examination is thorough but efficient. Blood drawn, vitals checked, ultrasound performed. Throughout, Dr. Petrova maintains professional detachment paired with unexpected kindness.

"There," she says eventually, turning the ultrasound monitor toward me. "Seven weeks, as you suspected. Everything appears normal."

I stare at the small gray shape on the screen, barely recognizable as human. So tiny, so vulnerable, yet already causing seismic shifts in the foundations of my life.

"It seems impossible," I whisper, surprising myself with the admission.

Dr. Petrova's expression softens. "It does, every time. Even with all our medical knowledge, the beginning of life remains somewhat miraculous."

She prints several images, then wipes the gel from my stomach. "Now, let's discuss your options."

The conversation that follows is detailed, carefully neutral, and mercifully free of the emotional weight crushing me since the bathroom revelation. Dr. Petrova outlines medical considerations, timeline expectations, and practical recommendations with the air of someone who has navigated these waters before.

"Switzerland is an excellent choice," she confirms when I outline my plan. "I have colleagues at several private clinics in Geneva. The quality of prenatal care is outstanding, and privacy is considered sacrosanct."

"My father cannot know," I emphasize, the fear behind this statement evident despite my controlled voice.

Dr. Petrova's eyes sharpen, understanding the unspoken implications of a Bratva leader discovering his unmarried daughter's pregnancy. "I understand. Nothing in your medical records will indicate pregnancy. As far as any official documentation is concerned, you're receiving treatment for mild anemia—common enough to explain occasional fatigue but not serious enough to prevent travel or study."

"And the application to the diplomatic academy?"

"I'll prepare health clearance documentation that raises no red flags." She hesitates, then adds, "However, there is the matter of your regular physical with Dr. Roman Kuznetsov next week."

My blood runs cold. I'd forgotten about the quarterly examination my father insists upon—his way of monitoring my health with the same rigorous attention he gives to his business assets.

"He'll discover everything," I whisper, panic threatening to overwhelm me again.

"Not necessarily." Dr. Petrova's calm voice cuts through my fear. "We'll create a controlled situation. I'll provide you with medication to temporarily suppress the hCG levels in your blood—not enough to harm the fetus, but sufficient to give you negative results on standard testing. For one examination only."

"That's possible?" Hope flickers, fragile but present.

"It's not standard practice," she admits. "But in cases where the mother's safety is at risk, certain accommodations can be made. Your physical is five days from now, correct?"

I nod, calculating the timeline. "Monday morning. Ten o'clock."

"Return here Friday afternoon. The medication requires forty-eight hours to reach maximum effectiveness." She makes notes in a secure tablet. "And Anastasia? After this, you should avoid all Bratva-connected medical facilities. The risk of discovery increases with each interaction."

"Understood." I straighten my clothes, mind already racing ahead to the next challenge. "What about symptoms? The nausea, fatigue..."

"Manageable with proper intervention." She hands me a small package. "Ginger supplements, vitamin B6, acupressure wristbands. All can be explained as treatments for your 'anemia' if questioned."

As I prepare to leave, Dr. Petrova stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. "One more thing, Anastasia. If you intend to carry this child to term in secret, you will need absolute commitment to your story. One slip, one inconsistency, and the entire construct falls apart."

"I understand." The weight of this undertaking presses down on me, simultaneously terrifying and clarifying.

"Good." She presses a secure phone into my hand. "For emergencies only. My direct line. Memorize it, then destroy the device."

I nod, tucking the phone into my purse. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't thank me yet." Her smile holds grim knowledge of the path ahead. "This is just the beginning."

* * *

Monday morning arriveswith bitter wind and threatening snow, the Moscow winter establishing its dominion early this year. I arrive at Dr. Kuznetsov's clinic fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointment, having taken the medication exactly as Dr. Petrova instructed.

Still, my heart pounds erratically as the nurse directs me to a private examination room. The antiseptic smell turns my already sensitive stomach as I perch on the edge of the examination table, the paper crinkling loudly in the silent room. If the suppression fails, if Dr. Kuznetsov orders non-standard tests, if my father happens to accompany me as he occasionally does...

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