Page 38 of Obsessive Vows

THREE MONTHS LATER

Geneva 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'sprivate 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."

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