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A chill runs through me. This is it—the marriage arrangement I've long anticipated, the final commodification of my existence.

But he surprises me. "Before we discuss specifics, you will take more active involvement in our European operations. I've arranged for you to review the Paris portfolio immediately."

Paris. The word sends a jolt through me. "You want me to return to Paris?"

"Not yet." He closes the folder. "For now, you'll work from here, familiarizing yourself with our interests there. Dmitri will brief you on the Petrov situation tomorrow morning."

I maintain my composure through practiced discipline. "Of course, Father."

"Good." He stands, our meeting clearly concluded. "Rest today. We begin tomorrow."

I rise, preparing to leave, when he adds, "You seem... different since your return."

My heart stutters. "Different?"

His cold eyes assess me with an unsettling gaze. "More focused, perhaps. Paris agreed with you."

Relief washes through me. "The change of scenery was... illuminating."

"Hmm." He doesn't appear entirely convinced but waves me away. "That will be all for now."

A sharp knock interrupts us. The door opens to reveal Konstantin Vasiliev, my father's head of security and most trusted operative. A former Spetsnaz commander, Konstantin has served my father since before I was born, his loyalty absolute and unquestioning.

"Apologies for the interruption, Mikhail Alexeyevich." Konstantin's voice carries the rasp of a decades-long cigarette habit. "There's a situation requiring your immediate attention."

My father's expression hardens. "The Odessa shipment?"

"Yes. Complications with the customs officials. And the Paris matter has new developments."

My father glances at me, then nods curtly. "Very well. Nastya, we'll continue this discussion later."

I recognize the dismissal, turning to leave as Konstantin steps aside to let me pass. As I reach the door, I hear my father's voice, now stripped of the paternal veneer he maintains in my presence. "Tell Yuri to handle the customs problem. The usual approach, double the usual rate. As for Paris—I want names, locations, and a full assessment of Petrov's involvement. If they're moving against us, I want options on my desk within the hour."

The transformation is subtle but complete. This is how the Markov organization truly operates—efficient, ruthless, bypassing legal channels with practiced ease. In this moment, Mikhail Markov isn't my father; he's the pakhan, the boss, the man whose word determines life or death across three continents.

I continue down the hallway, the familiar weight of this reality settling onto my shoulders once more. The freedom of Paris—the anonymous wandering, the spontaneous decisions, the night with Viktor—seems increasingly dreamlike, a brief hallucination of another life.

* * *

Four weeks passin a blur of meetings, financial reports, and professional assessments. True to his word, my father integrates me more fully into Markov operations than ever before, particularly focused on Western European interests. I learn of property holdings in Paris I never knew existed, of shell companies and laundering operations that would make legitimate businessmen blanch.

Through it all, I search for any mention of Viktor Baranov, any hint of his connection to these complex networks of power and criminality. But the name never appears in any document, any briefing, any conversation. As if he were truly a ghost, leaving no trace of his existence beyond the memories seared into my mind, the phantom sensations of his touch that wake me in the night.

Lena visits frequently, carefully avoiding mention of Paris after my initial refusals to discuss it. Instead, she provides companionship, normalcy, and the occasional escape to approved social functions where we maintain the perfect façade of privileged Bratva daughters.

On a gray Tuesday morning, exactly four weeks after my return from Paris, I wake to a sensation I've never experienced before—a rolling nausea that sends me sprinting to the bathroom, barely making it before emptying the contents of my stomach.

"Food poisoning," I mutter to myself, rinsing my mouth afterward. The chef's seafood selection had tasted slightly off the previous evening.

But when the same nausea returns the following morning, and the morning after that, a different possibility begins to form—one so catastrophic in its implications that I initially refuse to consider it.

Until I find myself inexplicably weeping over a dropped teacup, emotions surging through me with unprecedented volatility.

Until the scent of my father's imported cigars, previously merely unpleasant, suddenly triggers another wave of nausea so intense I must excuse myself from a crucial briefing.

Until my breasts become so tender that even the soft silk of my pajamas causes discomfort.

I track the dates on my calendar with increasing panic. One week late. Then two. My cycle has always been predictable, a fact I've taken for granted until now.