Page 62 of Obsessive Vows

ANASTASIA

"The Romanov Suite at the Metropol is available for the reception, though securing it requires certain... accommodations with the hotel management." My father's event coordinator—a severe woman named Irina who specializes in Bratva social occasions—taps her tablet with manicured fingers, each click of her blood-red nail against the screen like a tiny gunshot in the silent room. "The guest list currently stands at three hundred seventy-two. Primarily business associates, political connections, and allied families."

I nod absently, fingering the heavy silk of yet another wedding gown sample brought for my approval. The fabric drapes across my lap like liquid ice—cold, heavy, suffocating. Cream-colored Valentino, hand-embroidered with seed pearls and crystal beading that catch the light and refract it like tiny prison bars across my skin. Each pearl weighs against my fingertips, a miniature ball and chain. Exquisite craftsmanship wasted on a marriage built on deception and strategy.

The air in the room feels thick with expensive perfume and unspoken threats. My chest tightens with each breath, each minute bringing me closer to a future I cannot escape.

"The Minister of Finance has confirmed attendance," Irina continues, misinterpreting my silence as consideration rather than disgust. "As have representatives from six European diplomatic missions. The governor sends regrets but will attend the evening reception."

My father watches from his position by the window, cold eyes assessing my reactions to these arrangements being made without my input or consent. Sunlight catches on his signet ring as he drums his fingers against the windowsill—a rhythmic reminder of his impatience, his power, his control. The perfect Bratva wedding to cement his alliance with the man I once knew intimately in Paris. The man who now serves as his trusted lieutenant while harboring secrets I can't begin to decode.

The man who fathered my secret child, our daughter, whom I miss more with each passing day. If I allow myself to think of my sweet baby girl for more than a moment, I feel it will tear my heart wide open. It would make me act recklessly. And that would mean my secret would be laid bare for all within my father’s circle to see.

I stifle a shudder. I must maintain my composure.

"The dress selection needs to be finalized by Friday for alterations," Irina adds, her tone making clear this is not a request but a directive. "The designer requires precise measurements."

I feel my father's gaze intensify at this subtle reminder of my body—the vessel to be adorned, displayed, and ultimately used to seal his alliance. My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat.

"Of course." I force a smile that feels like cracking porcelain, stretching muscles that want to scream instead. "Schedule the final fitting for Thursday morning. I have diplomatic commitments until then."

My father's eyebrow raises slightly at this assertion of schedule control—the smallest rebellion in a life increasingly constrained by wedding preparations. Three weeks since the arrangement was announced. Six days since my confrontation with Viktor at the Tverskaya office. Each day bringing the inescapable reality closer like the slow tightening of a garrote.

"The engagement photographs are scheduled for this afternoon, diplomatic commitments or not," my father reminds me, his tone making clear no "diplomatic commitments" will interfere with this obligation. The subtle emphasis on "diplomatic" makes my heart stutter—does he suspect something? Has Viktor shared his surveillance findings? "Baranov will meet you at the Botanical Gardens at three. The photographer has been thoroughly vetted."

For any surveillance devices or listening equipment that might capture unintended revelations, he means. The Bratva's obsession with security extends even to supposedly joyous occasions. The irony that they search for others' surveillance while I dodge their own makes me want to laugh, a desperate sound I swallow before it can escape.

"I'll be ready." Another practiced smile as I rise, the wedding dress sample sliding from my lap to pool at my feet like shed skin. I gesture for the staff to remove the wedding samples, the weight of my father's assessment pressing against my shoulder blades like physical force. "If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare."

My father nods his dismissal, already turning his attention to Irina's logistics report for the security arrangements. I exit with measured steps, maintaining perfect composure until I reach my suite and activate the signal jammers concealed in my vanity. The soft electronic hum as they engage brings the first real breath I've taken all morning, muscles loosening fractionally with the illusion of privacy.

Only then do I extract the secure phone hidden in a hollowed-out copy of Tolstoy on my bookshelf—a hiding place deliberately obvious enough that my father's security team would find it if they searched, believing they'd discovered my secret. The actual secure line rests in a custom compartment beneath my bathroom tiles, accessible only through pressure points known exclusively to me.

My fingers tremble as I press the ceramic tile in the precise pattern—second from the left, bottom corner, center diagonal, a millimeter-perfect sequence that triggers the hidden mechanism with a soft click. The compartment slides open, revealing the matte black device nestled in custom foam. My heart pounds against my ribs as I activate it, the familiar surge of fear and longing making my hands shake.

Triple authentication protocols, seventeen seconds to connection establishment. The Swiss number rings twice before connecting, each second stretching like an eternity, the sound of my own breathing harsh in the silent bathroom.

"Secure line established," Anna's voice, professionally neutral but with an undercurrent of warmth we've developed over months of shared secrets.

"Status report," I respond, my voice equally controlled despite the desperate need to hear about Sofia. I grip the edge of the marble counter, knuckles white with tension.

"Subject is developing according to schedule. Weight gain appropriate. Cognitive responses within optimal parameters." Her clinical phrasing disguises the simple truth that my daughter is healthy, growing, reaching normal baby milestones in my absence. I close my eyes, picturing Sofia's face, the tiny hands I haven't held in months.

"Any anomalies in perimeter security?" I ask, the question that begins every call since Viktor's appearance in my life. My mouth goes dry as I await her answer, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

"Negative. Standard monitoring shows no unusual activity." Anna hesitates, then adds, "However, precautionary measures have been implemented as discussed. Alternate location prepared if necessary."

The contingency we established after Viktor's appearance—a secondary safe house in northern Italy, reachable through carefully established channels if the Swiss location becomes compromised. The thought sends ice through my veins despite the necessity of such planning. I taste metal in my mouth, fear a physical flavor on my tongue.

"Visual confirmation?" I request, the protocol we established for especially stressful periods. My voice catches on the words, betraying the emotion I try so hard to control.

"Uploading now. Ten-second window."

My screen illuminates with Sofia's image—dark hair growing in thicker now, chubby legs kicking at the air as she lies on her play mat. Three months old and already more alert, more present, those silver-gray eyes—his eyes—focusing on a colorful mobile toy above her. She makes a small fist, tiny fingers curling and uncurling in a gesture so achingly familiar it steals my breath.

Ten seconds. Not nearly enough to satisfy the need for my child that consumes me daily, the physical longing to hold her, to breathe in her scent, to feel her weight against my chest. My arms actually ache with emptiness, phantom weight of her small body a constant absence I carry everywhere. I press my hand against my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape—something between a sob and her name.

"Transmission complete," Anna announces as the image disappears, leaving a black void that mirrors the hollow space beneath my ribs. "Additional precautions implemented as discussed."

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