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I take the phone, studying the information with a strange sense of removal, as if this is happening to someone else. "How do you know her?"

"She helped Marya. And three other girls from families like ours." Lena reclaims her phone, her expression darkening. "At seventeen, I thought I might need her services myself, after Dimitri Kuznetsov's son decided my 'no' meant 'convince me' at his father's birthday celebration."

Cold fury washes through me at this revelation. "You never told me."

"What could you have done?" She shrugs, the practiced nonchalance belying the pain beneath. "His father controls three districts and half the heroin trade in Moscow. My father called it 'building business relationships.'"

The familiar shame courses through me—that despite my rebellious thoughts, I've benefited from the protection my father's name provides. Women like Lena, despite their families' status, still serve as pawns in the Bratva's power games.

"I'll arrange an appointment for tomorrow," Lena continues, redirecting to the immediate problem. "Use the ballet class excuse; your father never questions that."

The methodical approach calms me, giving shape to the formless panic that's consumed me for days. "Thank you," I manage, voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably something dramatic and ill-conceived." Her smile softens the words. "Now, let's think bigger. Pregnancy is nine months. That's a long time to maintain a deception."

"I need to leave Moscow," I say, the conclusion I've been circling for days finally articulated. "Somewhere my father can't watch my every move."

"Somewhere with excellent medical care, privacy laws, and no Bratva connections," Lena adds. "Switzerland fits the bill. Neutral territory, banking secrecy culture extends to medical confidentiality, and excellent private clinics."

My mind races ahead, strategic instincts finally engaging. "Educational cover. A language program or international relations course. Something that benefits the family business enough that Father might approve."

"The International Diplomatic Academy in Geneva offers an exclusive nine-month program starting in January," Lena says, already searching on her phone. "Perfect timing for your... situation."

"How do you know these things?" I ask, genuine amazement cutting through my anxiety.

Her smile turns razor-sharp. "Unlike you, I never expected to be allowed real freedom. I've spent years researching escape routes, just in case my father decides to follow through on his threats to marry me to Viktor Petrov to settle their territory dispute." She shivers visibly. "The man's buried three wives already, all in 'tragic accidents.'"

The statement hits me with uncomfortable truth. Despite my internal rebellions, I've been largely compliant with my father's expectations—accepting the boundaries of my gilded cage, pushing only in small, ultimately meaningless ways. Paris was my first significant act of defiance and look where it led.

"I need a story he'll believe," I say, mind already constructing possibilities. "One that appeals to his business sense, not his paternal instincts."

"The diplomatic angle is perfect." Lena scrolls through the academy's website. "International connections, political influence, legitimate front for Bratva operations abroad. And diplomatic immunity never hurts."

I nod, the outline of a plan forming. "I'll need medical documentation for the application. Prior health records. Nothing that raises flags."

"Dr. Petrova can help with that." Lena pockets her phone, expression turning serious. "But Nastya, you need to be prepared. Your father won't let you go easily. Not without ensuring you remain under some form of control."

"Security detail," I predict grimly. "At minimum."

"Which means you'll need to lose them occasionally for doctor's appointments."

"One problem at a time." I stand, new determination straightening my spine. "First, we confirm everything with Dr. Petrova. Then I prepare my case for Switzerland."

Lena rises beside me, studying my face with unexpected tenderness. "You're going to be a mother, Nastya. That's... huge."

The simple observation hits me with physical force. A mother. Not just pregnant—a mother. To a child who will inherit my blood, Viktor's blood, the complicated legacy of both.

"I can't think about that part yet," I admit, voice barely audible. "It's too overwhelming."

"Fair enough." She links her arm through mine as we walk back toward the house. "One step at a time. Doctor tomorrow. We'll figure out the rest."

Dr. Ekaterina Petrovaoperates from a small, elegant office in a converted pre-revolutionary apartment building far from the usual Bratva medical facilities. Tasteful abstract art hangs on walls painted a calming sage green. No receptionist, no waiting room filled with other patients. Just a single entrance with a discreet biometric security system.

"Miss Markov," she greets me, extending a hand as I enter. "Lena mentioned your situation requires absolute discretion."

Dr. Petrova is younger than I expected, perhaps early forties, with intelligent eyes behind stylish glasses and a no-nonsense demeanor that immediately puts me at ease. Nothing in her manner suggests judgment or fear, despite clearly understanding who I am.

"Yes," I confirm simply. "Complete confidentiality is essential."