I go to the appointment.
Dr. Kuzmin is professional and efficient. Takes my blood pressure, asks questions about my cycle, my general health. Nothing invasive, nothing inappropriate.
The questions themselves tell a story.
“When was your last period?”
“Are you experiencing any nausea? Fatigue?”
“Any breast tenderness or sensitivity?”
I answer mechanically, understanding dawning with cold clarity. This isn’t a general health check.
This is preparation.
When I return to the house, I’m shaking with something that might be rage or fear or both.
***
The truth comes accidentally two days later.
I’m walking past the secured wing—the area Aleksandr told me was restricted, off-limits. Usually, guards block theentrance. Today, the hallway is empty. Whoever was supposed to be stationed here got called away or forgot their post.
I should keep walking. Should respect the boundaries even if they’re not being physically enforced.
I hear voices. Aleksandr’s voice specifically, carrying from a room with the door slightly ajar.
I move closer without thinking. Press myself against the wall where I can hear but not be seen.
“—concern about timeline,” an older man is saying in heavily accented English. “The marriage is stable?”
“Yes.” Aleksandr’s voice. Calm. Clinical. “She’s adjusted well. No attempts to escape, minimal resistance.”
“The matter of succession?”
Silence for a moment. Then: “In progress.”
My stomach drops.
“Good,” the older man continues. “The Sharov bloodline requires continuity. Your father understood this. Made mistakes, yes, but he ensured the line continued through you. Now you must do the same.”
“I’m aware of my obligations.”
“The girl—she’s young. Fertile. The medical reports are promising. Within six months, perhaps sooner, you should have confirmation. Then the families will settle. Questions about your choice of bride will fade once she provides an heir.”
She. Not even my name. Justshe.An incubator with legal paperwork.
“Her family’s genetics are acceptable despite the current weakness,” the older man continues. “Good bloodlines, historically. The bastard status is… unfortunate, but notdisqualifying. Your children will carry enough Sharov blood to matter.”
“Is there anything else?” Aleksandr asks, tone unchanged.
“Just ensure she remains cooperative. Some women resist pregnancy, resist their role. Don’t allow sentimentality to interfere with necessity.”
“I won’t.”
The casual certainty in those two words breaks something in me.
I back away from the door, moving silently down the corridor. No running. No panic. Just cold, careful retreat.
