Page 29

Lena's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise toward her hairline, her mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise. She blinks once, twice, her mind visibly processing this bombshell. Then, instead of the shock or judgment I half-expected, her expression shifts to one of focused determination.

"Paris guy?" she asks simply.

I nod, throat too tight for words.

"Does he know?"

"No." My laugh holds no humor. "I don't know how to get in touch with him, Lena. We… went our separate ways the morning after." I pause, that panic-filled escape flashing through my mind. “It seemed necessary, at the time.”

Understatement of the century.

"And your father?"

"If he finds out..." I can't finish the sentence, the possibilities too horrifying to articulate.

"He'd do exactly what my father did to Katerina," Lena says, her voice dropping to a whisper as her hand unconsciously traces the thin scar along her collarbone—a reminder of her attempt to intervene when her father discovered her cousin's pregnancy three years ago.

The unspoken hangs between us: Katerina, sent to a remote "wellness facility" in Siberia, returning months later hollow-eyed and childless, married off within weeks to a brutal Bratva captain twice her age. The official story—a needed rest for "nervous exhaustion." The truth—a forced abortion and sterilization to ensure no further "embarrassments" for the Volkov family.

Lena takes my cold hands in hers, her grip surprisingly strong. "He won't find out unless we want him to. Now, how far along?"

The practical question cuts through my spiral of panic. "About seven weeks."

She nods, mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. "Options?"

"I don't know." The admission feels like failure. I've always prided myself on strategic thinking, on seeing multiple moves ahead like my mother taught me. But this—this feels like checkmate with no warning, no preparation.

"Bullshit again." Lena's voice sharpens. "You've been hiding in this mausoleum for three days. You've thought about options."

She's right, of course. Every waking moment has been spent mentally calculating possibilities, each more impossible than the last.

"I could..." I swallow hard. "I could terminate."

The word feels wrong in my mouth, though I've never judged others for making that choice. But something fierce and protective curls inside me at the thought—an instinct I never knew I possessed until those two pink lines appeared on the test.

"But you don't want to," Lena observes, reading my expression with the ease of long friendship.

"No." The admission comes easier than expected. "I don't."

"Even knowing what happens to women who defy the Brotherhood's rules?" Lena's tone hardens, her fingers unconsciously tracing her scar again. "This isn't a fairy tale, Nastya. Our fathers trade daughters like commodities. Purity defines our value in their world. An unwed mother with a bastard child would be worthless currency in their transactions."

Her stark assessment makes me flinch, but she continues relentlessly.

"Remember Irina Sorokina? Pakhan Sorokin's daughter? She kept her baby against her father's wishes. Her child was taken the day after birth, given to some distant relatives. Irina was declared mentally unstable and has spent three years in that private asylum outside Saint Petersburg."

The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the autumn air. I've met Irina at Bratva functions—once vibrant and defiant, now a medicated shell trotted out for appropriate appearances, always under the watchful eye of her "caretakers."

"I'm not Irina," I say, steel entering my voice. "And my father needs me functional—I'm his only heir since Alexei's death."

"Then we plan for the only viable alternative." She pulls out her phone, fingers flying over the screen. "My cousin Marya had a similar situation two years ago. Her father's even more traditional than yours. She managed to hide the entire pregnancy by studying in Geneva."

I stare at her in disbelief. "You've thought about this before?"

"Sweetheart, I've had a pregnancy contingency plan since I was sixteen." She doesn't look up from her phone. "Every Bratva daughter should. Our fathers auction our wombs to the highest bidder; we need backup plans."

The blunt assessment shouldn't shock me, but it does. Not because it's untrue, but because we so rarely speak this truth aloud. The sophisticated facade of the modern Bratva—with its legitimate businesses, political connections, and cultural philanthropy—masks the medieval attitudes toward women that persist at its core.

"Here." She shows me a contact on her phone. "Dr. Petrova. Discreet, competent, no connections to any Bratva medical networks. She can confirm the pregnancy and discuss options without reporting back to your father."