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Connection. The clinical term for the bewildering emotions that occasionally ambush me during quiet moments—when I catch myself wondering if the child will have Viktor's striking gray eyes or my stubborn chin, when I find myself humming lullabies my mother sang before her death.

"Yes," I decide suddenly. "I'd like to know."

Dr. Rousseau's smile widens. "You're having a daughter."

A daughter. The word resonates through me with unexpected power. Not just an abstract baby, but a little girl. Someone who will face the same challenges I have in the Bratva world, if I don't create a different path for her.

"Now," Dr. Rousseau continues, "regarding tomorrow's event. You're at a challenging stage for concealment—not yet obviously pregnant to strangers, but noticeable to anyone paying careful attention."

"And my father's security chief will be paying very careful attention," I confirm.

She nods thoughtfully. "I've worked with diplomats and public figures in similar situations. With proper garment selection and posture management, we can minimize visibility. The more significant concern is your physical symptoms."

"The fatigue is manageable," I begin, but she interrupts with gentle authority.

"I'm referring to fetal movement. First-time mothers typically notice quickening between eighteen and twenty-two weeks. Many describe the sensation as quite startling initially—like butterflies or bubbles. In public settings, your instinctive reaction could reveal everything."

"Has it started already?" I ask, realizing I've felt occasional fluttering sensations I'd attributed to nerves.

"Almost certainly. The coming week is when most women become consciously aware of it." She leans forward, her expression serious. "Anastasia, this is medically significant. When you feel her move, your body will release hormones triggering visible physiological responses—pupils dilating, facial flushing, sometimes an audible gasp. Natural maternal reactions that security professionals are trained to notice."

Another complication I hadn't anticipated. "How do I control this?"

"Practice. Awareness." She hands me a small device resembling a compact. "This delivers a mild vibration against your skin, simulating early fetal movement. Spend today conditioning yourself not to react visibly when you feel it."

I take the device, determination replacing anxiety. Another problem to solve, another layer of deception to perfect. My existence now comprises an intricate web of falsehoods—attendance records showing perfect participation in lectures I sometimes miss for medical appointments, carefully edited reports to my father highlighting diplomatic connections that exist primarily on paper, appearances at public functions to maintain my cover.

"There's one more thing," Dr. Rousseau says, retrieving an envelope from her desk. "Your latest ultrasound images. Many patients find them... meaningful."

Inside are several black-and-white photos showing increasingly clear details of my daughter. Unlike the amorphous blob from my first scan in Moscow, these images reveal distinctly human features—the curve of a spine, the perfect oval of her head, tiny hands with five visible fingers.

Something shifts inside me—not physically, but emotionally—as I trace the outline of her profile with my fingertip. For months, I've approached this pregnancy primarily as a crisis to manage, a secret to protect. The tactical challenge has overshadowed the fundamental reality: I'm creating a person.

"She's perfect," I whisper, surprising myself with the thickness in my voice.

Dr. Rousseau smiles gently. "Yes, she is. All your tests indicate excellent development. Would you like to hear her heartbeat before you go?"

I nod, suddenly eager for this connection, this moment of authenticity amid so many carefully constructed lies.

The steady galloping rhythm fills the room—faster than an adult heartbeat, strong and insistent. Alive. My daughter, announcing her presence with unmistakable determination.

And then—a flutter inside me, distinct and undeniable. Not nerves or imagination, but her response to the sound of her own heart, to her mother's attention.

My hand flies to my abdomen, tears springing unbidden to my eyes. Dr. Rousseau watches knowingly.

"That's exactly the reaction you'll need to control tomorrow," she says softly. "But for now, allow yourself this moment. It's important."

The fluttering continues, like butterfly wings against my insides—delicate yet impossibly strong. My daughter, making her presence known.

In that moment, something crystallizes within me—a fierce, primal resolve that transcends the determination that's guided me these past months. This isn't just about escaping my father's control or creating space for my own choices. It's about her. About ensuring she never knows the suffocating constraints of Bratva life, never becomes currency in power exchanges between brutal men.

I will give her what I never had: freedom.

* * *

The reception hallof the International Diplomatic Academy blazes with chandeliers and the subdued wealth of the diplomatic corps. Crystal glassware clinks, multilingual conversations flow, and the subtle dance of international politics plays out across the marble floor. Under normal circumstances, I would find the environment fascinating—a practical application of theoretical frameworks I've studied since childhood.

Tonight, all my attention focuses on maintaining the perfect posture that minimizes my silhouette, on holding the champagne glass I never sip from, on controlling my expressions when my daughter decides to punctuate key diplomatic statements with her newly discovered ability to kick.