The response came ten days later, and it arrived not by courier but by hand. Her father drove to the house himself, alone, which was so unexpected that Anya knew immediately something fundamental had shifted. She was resting when he arrived—the pregnancy was becoming increasingly exhausting, her body demanding more sleep, more food, more of everything. Dmitri woke her with a quiet knock, his expression carefully neutral in the way that suggested he was managing his own reactions to her father’s unexpected appearance. “He’s here,” Dmitri said. “He’s asked to speak with you alone.” “No,” Anya said immediately. “That’s what I told him. But he’s quite insistent. He says he’s not leaving until you’ve heard what he has to say.” Anya pulled herself upright, her movements slower now, her body heavier. At nineteen weeks, the pregnancy was undeniable—her breasts were fuller, her belly a clear swell that would be obvious to anyone who looked at her. She’d stopped trying to hide it. There was
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