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"Miss Markov." Dmitri's voice behind me sends ice through my veins despite my preparation. "What a pleasant surprise."

I turn, face composed in the polite mask of diplomatic engagement. "Dmitri Alexeyevich. I wasn't aware you were in Geneva."

His eyes—cold and assessing as all my father's men—scan me with professional thoroughness. "Routine security review. Your father insists on regular verification of all European assets."

The deliberate word choice—assets, not operations—underscores how my father categorizes me. Not daughter, not person. Property to be monitored, investment to be protected.

"How conscientious of him," I respond with practiced lightness. "Though surely a phone call would have sufficed to confirm my welfare."

"Perhaps." Dmitri's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "But visual confirmation provides details electronic communication cannot. You look... well."

The slight pause contains volumes of meaning. I've prepared for this scrutiny, dressed in an expertly tailored black evening gown with architectural elements that distract from my changing body. Anna arranged my hair in an elaborate style that draws attention upward, away from my midsection.

"The Swiss air agrees with me," I reply smoothly. "And the academic environment is intellectually stimulating. My latest report to Father detailed the valuable connections I've established with the Belgian diplomatic contingent."

Dmitri's gaze remains calculating. "Yes, he mentioned your thoroughness. Though he was surprised you declined the Moscow visit during winter break."

A trap, carefully laid. No winter break was scheduled—a test to verify my supposed academic obligations.

"The intensive language modules run continuously," I counter without hesitation. "Missing three weeks would have compromised my standing in the program. Father agreed the diplomatic connections were more valuable than a brief family reunion."

My daughter chooses this precise moment to execute what feels like a somersault, the sensation so sudden and distinct that I must employ every ounce of control not to react visibly. Dr. Rousseau's practice sessions prove their worth as I maintain my composed expression despite the internal commotion.

"Indeed." Dmitri sips his champagne, eyes never leaving my face. "Still, he worries about you here alone. Perhaps I should remain in Geneva for a few weeks, provide closer security."

The implied threat lands precisely as intended. Extended surveillance would make maintaining my secret nearly impossible as my pregnancy advances.

"How thoughtful," I respond with a smile that matches his for insincerity. "Though my schedule is rather demanding. Mostly lectures and library research—hardly requiring Bratva security protocols."

Before he can respond, I spot my opportunity—Professor Lemieux approaching, the program director whose support has been instrumental in adjusting my academic requirements around medical necessities.

"Dmitri, you must meet Professor Lemieux," I say, gesturing elegantly. "His insights on Eastern European security cooperation would interest Father greatly."

The introduction accomplishes multiple objectives—prevents further private conversation, demonstrates my legitimate academic engagement, and provides a witness to our interaction who can later confirm my active participation in program activities.

As they exchange pleasantries, I excuse myself with practiced grace, navigating toward the ladies' room where Anna waits with the emergency kit we prepared—anti-nausea medication, compression garments to readjust if needed, and the secure phone for contacting Dr. Rousseau if complications arise.

"He's suspicious," I murmur in French as she helps adjust my dress. "Not certain, but definitely suspicious."

Anna nods grimly. "We need to accelerate the contingency plan."

The contingency—relocating to the private chalet in Verbier we secured through Dr. Rousseau's connections, ostensibly for an intensive thesis research retreat. The move would limit my public appearances during the most visible final months but requires careful documentation to satisfy my father's monitoring.

"Not yet," I decide. "Moving too quickly confirms his suspicions. We maintain normal patterns for at least two more weeks."

My daughter kicks again, stronger this time, as if registering her objection. Soon, very soon, such deceptions will become impossible as my body reveals the truth no careful styling can conceal.

But tonight, I've won another small victory in this dangerous game—maintained the facade before the most critical observer, created another day of safety for my daughter.

As I return to the reception, Dmitri watches from across the room, his gaze carrying the weight of unspoken questions. Whatever he reports to my father will determine our next moves in this elaborate chess match where my daughter's future hangs in the balance.

And somewhere in this world, Viktor remains unaware that he's created a daughter who announces her existence with butterfly kicks against my ribs—a daughter who deserves better than the Bratva legacy that awaits her if my deception fails.

11

VIKTOR

"On my signal."