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My final nightin Switzerland passes in a haze of memorization and grief barely contained. Every moment with Sofia becomes a ceremony—her bath in the evening, her feeding at midnight, the quiet hours of simply holding her while she sleeps, committing to memory the specific weight of her in my arms.

Physical sensations I know will haunt me in Moscow: the precise curve of her head beneath my palm, the particular warmth of her tiny body against my chest, the rhythm of her breathing that somehow matched my own from the first moment she was placed in my arms.

When dawn approaches, I feel the grief building physically—pressure in my chest, hollowness in my stomach, the weight of unshed tears behind my eyes. As I nurse Sofia one final time, my body protests the impending separation through tangible biological responses—milk production increasing as if trying to create reserves for the coming absence, hormones surging to strengthen the maternal bond precisely when I must temporarily sever it.

Anna finds me in the rocking chair at sunrise, silent tears tracking down my face as Sofia sleeps against my heart.

"The car will arrive in two hours," she says gently. "Everything is ready."

I nod, unable to speak past the knot in my throat. The rational part of my brain understands the necessity of return, of maintaining the deception that protects Sofia's existence. The primal maternal part rebels against every aspect of leaving her, screaming biological imperatives I've never experienced before.

"I have something for you." Anna places a small velvet pouch in my hand. "Dr. Beaumont helped me prepare it."

Inside, I find two identical silver lockets. When opened, one contains a tiny snippet of Sofia's dark hair preserved in clear resin. The other holds a similar cutting of my own hair.

"One for each of you," Anna explains, unexpected gentleness in her voice. "To carry part of each other until you're together again."

The thoughtfulness nearly breaks my carefully maintained composure. I fasten Sofia's locket around my neck, tucking it beneath my blouse where it rests against my skin. The other I gently attach to her tiny wrist, sized as a bracelet she can grow into.

"There are medications packed in your secure case," Anna continues, practical even in emotional moments. " Dr. Beaumont provided medication to help manage the physical discomfort of… milk production when your child is not there to consume it, if needed."

The clinical discussion of biological realities somehow makes the separation more concrete, more painful. This isn't just emotional absence—my body will physically protest being separated from my child through aching breasts, through phantom cries that research suggests many mothers experience during separation, through hormonal fluctuations designed by evolution to prevent exactly what I'm about to do.

When it's time to dress for departure, I find myself moving like a zombie—already feeling dead inside without the closeness of my child. So many times I want to break down, to acknowledge that I might not be able to withstand this heartache once I am away from her. My mind catalogs final details of Sofia—the perfect curve of her ear, the tiny crease at her wrist, the specific pattern of her breathing when deeply asleep.

In the chalet's master bathroom, I make my final transformation. Loose maternal clothing replaced by a tailored suit appropriate for the daughter of Mikhail Markov. Hair arranged in the sleek chignon my father prefers. Makeup applied with care to disguise any remaining softness from pregnancy and the evidence of tears.

I study my reflection critically. The woman who stares back resembles the Anastasia who left Moscow nine months ago—controlled, composed, the perfect Bratva princess resuming her predetermined role.

Only the eyes reveal the fundamental transformation. The silver locket rests beneath my blouse, invisible but present—like the secret strength motherhood has grafted to my bones.

For the final goodbye, I lift Sofia from Anna's arms, pressing my lips to her forehead, inhaling her scent one last time. "Ya vernus', malyshka," I whisper against her skin. I will return, little one.

As Anna takes her from my arms, the physical separation feels like tearing connective tissue—a visceral, cellular-level pain that steals my breath. I force myself to turn away, to walk toward the waiting car, each step requiring conscious override of maternal instinct screaming to return to my child.

The driver holds the door as I slide into the backseat, composed facade firmly in place despite the molten grief burning beneath it. As the car pulls away, I resist the urge to look back, knowing my control might shatter completely.

Instead, I press my hand to the hidden locket, feeling its slight weight against my skin—the only tangible evidence I'll carry of Sofia's existence as I return to the wolves' den that is the Markov compound.

My hand moves instinctively to where she rested beneath my heart for nine months. The physical changes hidden beneath careful tailoring, but the internal shift permanent and absolute.

I am no longer just Anastasia Markov, dutiful daughter and Bratva asset.

I am Sofia's mother.

And as the plane lifts off Swiss soil, carrying me back to Moscow and the dangerous game awaiting me there, one truth crystallizes with perfect clarity: there is nothing I won't do, no line I won't cross, to protect my daughter and eventually return to her.

Even if it means destroying my father—and everything he's built—in the process.

13

ANASTASIA

The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Ballroom at the Metropol Hotel cast precise geometric patterns across the marble floor—a fitting metaphor for tonight's carefully orchestrated performance. Every detail from the champagne selections to the carefully positioned security personnel serves to reinforce what this gathering truly celebrates: not my academic achievements, but the Markov organization's undiminished power.

I stand beside my father at the entrance, accepting congratulations with practiced grace, my burgundy evening gown selected to project sophistication without ostentation. One year since Paris. Nine months in Switzerland. Five weeks since I left Sofia in Anna's capable hands. Each passing moment both an eternity and a heartbeat.