Page 45 of Obsessive Vows

My mind races through possibilities. Random patrol? Neighbor complaint? Or something more sinister—my father's international connections extending to local law enforcement?

"Diplomatic identity," I decide, moving to the hidden safe behind an innocent-looking landscape painting. Inside, multiple identity documents await different scenarios. For this, I select the credentials identifying me as cultural attaché to the Russian Federation—sufficient to discourage casual inquiry, backed by actual diplomatic registry if verification occurs.

"Take Sofia to the secondary position," I instruct Anna. "Execute Blue Protocol if necessary."

Blue Protocol—our second-tier emergency response. If I don't return or send the all-clear within thirty minutes, Anna will activate the evacuation plan, taking Sofia through prearranged channels to our secondary safe location.

Anna hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across her usually composed features. "Be careful," she says, switching to her native Belarusian dialect. "I've left too much behind to lose this new life too."

The rare personal admission reminds me what she's risking. Not just employment, but the carefully constructed identity that protects her from the ex-husband who still occasionally searches for her. The relative safety she's found after years of living in shadows. The quiet dignity of this new existence caring for a child away from Bratva brutality.

"I will," I promise, touching her arm briefly before she disappears with Sofia through the concealed passage connecting to the secondary suite.

I adjust my appearance quickly—donning a tailored blazer over casual clothes, applying minimal makeup to enhance the image of a diplomatic professional interrupted at home. The doorbell rings as I check the security feed—two uniformed officers, male and female, standard patrol insignia visible on their vehicle.

When I open the door, I offer a polite but reserved smile. "Good afternoon, officers. How may I assist you?"

The female officer speaks first, in French-accented English. "Apologies for the intrusion, madame. We're conducting security checks in the area following reports of unusual activity."

"Unusual activity?" I maintain composed curiosity while running mental calculations on escape routes and response options.

"A black SUV with diplomatic plates has been observed making multiple passes by properties in this area," the male officer explains. "Not necessarily concerning, but given the remote location and the high-profile residents nearby, we're performing courtesy notifications."

Relief mingles with renewed vigilance. Standard procedure, then, not targeted investigation. Still, "diplomatic plates" raises warning flags—most legitimate diplomatic vehicles wouldn't patrol remote chalets without official purpose.

"I appreciate your diligence," I respond, offering my diplomatic identification. "I haven't noticed anything concerning, but I'll certainly remain alert."

They examine my credentials with professional thoroughness, then return them with appropriate deference. "Thank you, Madame Ivanova. Please contact this number directly if you observe anything unusual." The female officer extends a card with the local police station details.

"Of course. Will you be checking other properties in the area?" I ask casually, fishing for information while appearing merely neighborly.

"Standard patrol only from now on," the male officer confirms. "The reported vehicle seems to have left the area."

After they depart, I maintain the diplomatic persona until their patrol car disappears down the mountain road. Only then do I activate the all-clear signal and verify that our secondary security measures remain intact. No evidence of surveillance devices, no indication that this was anything more than routine police work prompted by a legitimate security concern.

Yet the timing—so close to my planned departure—creates unsettling questions.

Anna returns with Sofia, who has remarkably slept through the entire incident. "Police only?" she confirms, maternal caution lingering in her expression.

"It seems so." I take Sofia from her arms, needing the physical reassurance of my daughter's weight against my chest. "But increase perimeter scanning for the next seventy-two hours. And advance the departure schedule—I'll leave tomorrow instead of the day after."

One less day with Sofia, but a potentially critical advantage if someone is indeed watching the chalet.

"I'll make the arrangements," Anna confirms, professional tone returning. "The Markov jet?"

"No. Commercial flight to Paris, then the jet from there. Additional security buffer." I press my lips to Sofia's forehead, inhaling her perfect baby scent. "And Anna? Thank you. Not everyone would remain this composed under pressure."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Before I became a nurse, I spent three years married to Viktor Petrov. Compared to his temper, a police inquiry is nothing."

The name sends an involuntary chill through me—Viktor Petrov, notorious even among Bratva for his brutality, particularly toward women. The husband Anna never speaks of, whose connections forced her to fake her own death before rebuilding her life under a new identity.

"How did you escape him?" I ask, the question slipping out before protocol can suppress it.

Anna's hand moves unconsciously to the scar along her jawline. "His third wife wasn't as fortunate as I was. She didn't have a brother willing to sacrifice everything to get her out." Something hard and determined enters her voice. "Which is why I understand what you're doing for Sofia. Some chains need to be broken, no matter the cost."

In that moment, the relationship shifts—no longer simply employer and employee, but two women who understand the specific dangers of the world we've fled, the particular brutality of the men who rule it.

"She will never know that life," I promise, as much to Anna as to the sleeping infant in my arms. "Never."

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