Page 32

Stop. Breathe. Focus. I smooth invisible wrinkles from my austere gray dress, selected specifically for its conservative cut and serious appearance. The perfect costume for Anastasia Markov, dutiful daughter, future Bratva asset.

"Miss Markov." Dr. Kuznetsov enters with his customary briskness. At sixty-two, he retains the military bearing from his former career as Soviet army medical officer. "Routine physical today, yes?"

"Yes, Doctor." I offer a polite smile, hands folded in my lap to hide their slight trembling.

The examination proceeds normally—weight, blood pressure, reflexes tested. When he draws blood for standard testing, I force myself to watch calmly, as if the vials filling with crimson liquid don't contain evidence that could destroy everything.

"You've lost weight," he observes, making notes in my file. "Three kilos since your last visit."

"I've had some stomach upset recently." The partial truth comes easily. "Nothing serious."

He frowns slightly. "Eating regularly?"

"When possible. The nausea makes it difficult sometimes."

This catches his attention. "Nausea? For how long?"

I calculate quickly, constructing a timeline that doesn't align with pregnancy. "About ten days. Started after the business dinner at the Metropol." A known event where several attendees reported food poisoning afterward—a convenient anchor for my fabrication.

"Hmm." He makes additional notes. "And fatigue?"

"Some." I shrug dismissively. "I've been working longer hours on the European portfolios. Father has increased my responsibilities."

Dr. Kuznetsov nods, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. "I'll run comprehensive blood work. Check for parasites, bacterial infection, vitamin deficiencies. The usual panel."

My heart rate spikes. "Is that necessary? It seems excessive for simple stomach upset."

His bushy eyebrows rise at my question. "Your father insists on thorough care, Miss Markov. You know this."

I backtrack smoothly. "Of course. I just hate to waste resources on what's likely a minor virus."

"Better to be certain." He continues his examination, palpating my abdomen with practiced hands.

I hold my breath as his fingers press near my uterus, irrational fear that he might somehow feel the tiny life growing there. But he moves on without comment, finishing the physical portion with professional detachment.

"Results should be ready by tomorrow afternoon," he says, finalizing his notes. "I'll call with any concerns."

"Thank you, Doctor." I rise, relief making me slightly lightheaded. "I appreciate your thoroughness."

He looks up, something almost paternal in his gaze. "You're important to your father, Anastasia Mikhailovna. Therefore, your health is important to all of us."

The reminder of my position—valuable asset, protected investment—sends a chill through me. Not concern for me as a person, but for what I represent to the Markov organization.

One more reason why this child must remain secret.

I dress quickly once he leaves, eager to escape the clinic's sterile confines. As I step into the hallway, a wave of nausea hits without warning—violent and immediate. I barely make it to the nearby restroom, fingers fumbling with the lock as I collapse to my knees on the cold tile floor.

The retching is painful, my empty stomach yielding little but acid and bile. Wave after wave of violent sickness leaves me trembling, tears streaming down my face. Just as the worst seems to pass, the bathroom door handle rattles.

"Anastasia? Are you in there?" My father's voice, unexpected and terrifying, filters through the door.

I flush quickly, panic giving me strength to rise on shaking legs. "Just a moment, Father." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears as I frantically rinse my mouth, checking my appearance in the mirror. Pale, too pale, with a sheen of sweat on my forehead.

When I open the door, Mikhail Markov stands in the hallway, his imposing figure somehow filling the space entirely. His cold eyes assess me with the same calculation he'd give a business prospect.

"You look unwell," he states flatly.

"Just a lingering stomach issue," I manage, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Dr. Kuznetsov is running tests."