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"You've put considerable thought into this," he observes finally. Not approval yet, but acknowledgment of the work involved.

"I take my responsibilities seriously." I meet his gaze steadily. "This isn't about personal preference, Father. It's about creating an advantage."

He leans back, studying me with those cold, assessing eyes that have made hardened Bratva captains tremble. "And your sudden interest in Switzerland has nothing to do with your time in Paris?"

The question hooks beneath my carefully constructed facade, threatening to tear it open. Has he discovered something about Viktor? About that night?

"Paris demonstrated the value of understanding European social and political structures firsthand," I answer smoothly. "This program builds on that foundation in a more formal, structured environment."

Not technically a lie, though far from the complete truth.

"Hmm." He taps the academy brochure thoughtfully. "Dmitri would need to accompany you. Full security protocols would remain in place."

I'd anticipated this. "Of course. Though the academy has strict regulations about security presence on campus. Perhaps modified arrangements during academic hours?"

"Negotiable." He sets aside the materials, studying me with uncomfortable intensity. "You've changed, Nastya. Since Paris."

I hold my breath, fighting to maintain neutral expression. "How so?"

"More focused. More advanced in your thinking." His lips curl slightly—the closest he comes to a smile these days. "It suits you. Reminds me of your mother."

The unexpected comparison to my mother—who he rarely mentions—throws me momentarily. "Thank you," I manage, uncertain if it's truly a compliment.

"She was brilliant at seeing the larger picture." His gaze turns distant, remembering. "Making connections others missed. I see that quality developing in you."

The rare personal insight creates an uncomfortable mixture of emotions—pride, confusion, and underlying it all, fear that this moment of connection might somehow lead to discovery.

"I'll consider your proposal," he says finally, returning to his usual business demeanor. "Prepare a detailed security assessment with Konstantin. If he approves the arrangements, and if Dr. Kuznetsov clears you medically, I'll make my decision within the week."

"Thank you, Father." I gather my materials, forcing my hands not to tremble with relief. Not approval yet, but not rejection either.

"And Anastasia?" he calls as I reach the door. "If this is approved, I expect regular reports. Detailed. Comprehensive. On all activities."

The implied surveillance sends a chill through me. "Of course."

As the door closes behind me, I release a shaking breath. The first hurdle cleared—not easily, but cleared, nonetheless. Now comes the complex dance of satisfying enough of my father's control mechanisms to maintain the illusion while creating the space I desperately need.

Later that evening, I slip away to Lena's apartment under the pretense of helping her prepare for an upcoming charity gala. It's a flimsy excuse, but one my father accepts with minimal questioning—Bratva social appearances matter to him, and Lena's family holds sufficient standing to make the association appropriate.

"You're sure this is secure?" I ask, eyeing the burner phone Lena has procured.

"Purchased with cash by my housekeeper's teenage son," Lena confirms, setting up noise-cancelling devices around her bedroom. "No connections to either of our families. And we're sweeping for bugs every six hours."

The level of paranoia would seem excessive to most, but in our world, such precautions are merely prudent. I've seen men executed for less significant security breaches than the one I'm about to commit.

With trembling fingers, I dial the number Dr. Petrova gave me for her Geneva colleague.

"Clinique des Alpes," answers a discreet female voice in French.

"This is Anastasia Ivanova," I respond, using the alias Dr. Petrova arranged. "I need to schedule a consultation regarding specialized obstetric care beginning in January."

"Of course, Ms. Ivanova. Dr. Petrova mentioned you might call. We can arrange everything discreetly."

As I confirm details, schedule preliminary virtual consultations, and arrange financial transfers through anonymous banking channels, a strange calm settles over me. The plan is forming—fragile still but taking shape.

Lena watches from her position by the window, keeping a vigilant eye on the street below. The daughter of a Bratva captain, she understands surveillance better than most.

When I end the call, she immediately takes the phone, removing its battery and SIM card. "I'll have these destroyed separately," she says, practical as always. "No digital footprint."