London
The penthouse of the Knaast chain of hotels existed for the richest and the most powerful in the world, but only if the proprietors were not using them.
Sylvia Knaast was a regular in the London rooms, using her name and privileges as she pleased.
That morning, she blinked and frowned. To the right of the bed, large French doors let the sun's rays pass through their crystal glasses to invade the rooms. White silk curtains did not do well at sifting light and it brushed the antiques of the lavish decoration, bringing warmth.
As a result, Sylvia's skull rattled with a splitting headache, and when the front door latch clicked, she groaned and yelled.
"Get out! I did not call room service."
She covered her eyes with a pillow but heard water fill the bathtub. The noise irritated, but when the herb smell wafted into the bedroom, she jumped faster than a Jack-in-the-box. She sat on the mattress, her heart hammering in her ribs, and the pillow covering her face.
"It's dad," she thought and knew her guess was right when heavy steps sounded. They were a bad omen, getting closer and closer while bringing the man to the bed.
She did not need to see his rage. She felt it very well when Bjorg yanked the comforting piece from her hands, slapped her hard, and roared, with spit flying around.
"Who bought you meth yesterday, you stupid whore."
"Whore? Did father call me whore," she asked herself, feeling ice run in her veins.
As seconds ticked by, her father said nothing, but Sylvia heard him breathing hard. Yet, he added not a single word.
Sylvia hated when Bjorg Knaast stood in silence like an avenging warrior of old because she knew it was his technique to make a person spill their guts. She saw it happening, and people confessed even what they hadn't done.
She tried her best to keep quiet, otherwise making things worse for herself, but she couldn't.
"S-so-sorry," Sylvia mewled, and waited.
Thus, a little appeased, Bjorg lifted a shaking hand and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Don't. I heard enough from that reporter."
"A Reporter? What reporter," the young woman asked dumbly.
Whether by extreme self-control or by an absolute consciousness of how useless a conversation would be, the Knaast Priest only stretched his muscled arm and pointed in the bathroom direction.
"Anyway, just get up. The tub has herbs for your hangover. You should stay in the cold water for twenty minutes until you feel better."
He wheeled on his feet and said over his shoulder. "I wait for you in the lobby. Either ready or not, you meet your future husband today."
Then, he left the room as a terrified Sylvia whispered, "Husband?"
As much as she was afraid, Silvia was angry, so she fought nausea, left the bed wearing her birthing clothes, and grabbed the furniture for balance. She negotiated her way through the suite to the bathroom.
Just as she avoided the chrome and glass side tables signed by famous designers with relative ease, she hit her big toe in a French antique. Obscene words left her dainty mouth as she threw herself on a loveseat nearby.
She didn't care if piles of gold-trimmed pillows fell on the granite floor.
She nursed the offended appendage with swimming eyes.
Then she waddled the remaining length to the bathroom with a limp and opened the door to the enormous room. The fittings flickered and gleamed under bright lights coming from a crystal chandelier.
Sylvia Knaast was dizzy, nervous, and irritated as she went down the steps to the water. However, when her delicate toes dipped in the cold and she winced, it was from pain. The aggressive sex she had the night before left her smooth creamy white skin with bruises and teeth marks.
As the cold mix of herbs soothed her abused body, Sylvia walked to the deepest part of the oval tub where black and pink marble shared with thin gold lines the honor of creating the Knaast coat of arms.
Even knowing how much her father cared about appearances, she minded nothing for the symbol of wealth and importance and much less for the reporter who had made her father go ballistic. Sitting on a soaked towel, the younger Knaast had her predicament in her mind.
Because what Bjorg Knaast wanted, Bjorg Knaast had, and his mind was to marry her to a man she didn't know from Adam.
Jets made the water swirl around her slender body and her silver-blonde mane of hair floated and slithered in the moving liquid.
Sylvia worried her lower lip.
"No. Dad doesn't know what I have been doing for fun. He called me a whore because he was angry," she decided.
So the young woman grinned and relaxed, musing aloud and pouring water over her shoulders.
"Father knows nothing. How could he guess I am a professional of sex and our hotel manager is my pimp? He would have the man hanging from his thumbs in a cave if he knew. I will play the obedient daughter. He will see things my way, and this stupid idea of marriage is just to put me straight. Maybe I should tune down a little," she sighed.
Whether for fear or result of the herbs, Sylvia was steadier enough to wrap herself in the hotel's soft white bathrobe twenty minutes later. So, when her gorgeous face with sharp cheekbones reflected in the wide bathroom mirror, she lifted her eyebrows and nodded to herself.
"No headache and no bruises to tell yesterday's story. Dad's herbs do wonders. I need to learn their names and make myself a stash."
Then, using the surrounding lamps which provided the rich with light for grooming, Sylvia braided her hair and pinned the braid in a loose bun at the nape. The hairdo displayed her elegant neck and soft shoulders with perfection.
She puckered her pink, plump lips to apply gloss and checked herself. A thick honey-colored drape of silky lashes framed her large almond-shaped eyes.
"No. I don't need mascara," she declared and kissed the air at her image, leaving the bathroom to go to the bedroom where she opened the bedroom closet and smiled.
Alfred, her partner in crime, kept clothes her size in the suite.
Sylvia chose a flowered dress in green and caramel tones, low heel strapped sandals, and a Prada bag to complete the morning look. The skirt reached the middle of her long, toned thighs and moved as she walked.
After that, she picked sunglasses to shield her sensitive royal blue eyes and took the elevator, walking into it with a smile.
When Bjorg's daughter strolled to her father in her spring looks, she made everyone turn to watch her pass.
The lobby showed her to perfection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and the potted flowers, hanging orchids, and foliage was a frame to her fresh beauty.
Sitting in a corner, Bjorg hid a smile. She was an ornament.
The flowers in her dress joined cane couches and design tables and produced a gracious effect. The decorator could not have chosen a better model to point out how the antique armchairs that stood between floor lamps and side tables created inviting nooks.
Sylvia was stupid, careless, addicted to many drugs, and a nuisance in his life, but her beauty made her an exceptional commodity in the husband's market. She hit the jackpot for the family the former week.
Bjorg Knaast stood from one of the cane couches to meet the bane of his existence. He grabbed his troublesome offspring's elbow and towed her through the sliding doors.
In times like that, he almost regretted giving Charlene to feed the general. Now he had to deal with the problem himself.
"I'm sorry, father," she mumbled.
"I wouldn't care for your apologies, Sylvia, even if you meant them."
"Did you say 'husband'," she asked, as they waited on the front steps.
Bjorg waved his hand so the valet would bring his car and nodded.
"Yes, I said 'husband'. Victor Falcone is an upstart who wants a try at his country's politics."
"Italy?"
"No. He's from Brazil. The country received many immigrants. His family got lucky, I guess."
The valet parked Bjorg's sports car and ran around it to open the door to Sylvia, but her irate father had already shoved her against the passenger seat, closing the door.
Surprised, the young man handed Bjorg the Bugatti Veyron's keys.
The billionaire Knaast Priest loved his sports car collection. Although more than able to protect himself, an escort followed him just for the sake of human eyes.
Even if Bjorg Knaast looked calmer when he geared the vehicle, he still left tire marks.
"Victor came to Europe for a wife; a pretty face intimate with high society. I felt like throwing a party when his lawyers approached me."
"Lawyers?"
"Yes. A marriage is a business deal. Lawyers are essential. We are not commoners, Sylvia. You are the Knaast heir."
"I am not the only heir. What about Ulli?"
"My younger brother was not the clan leader. Although his only daughter has her place in the family, you don't have the leeway she does."
She ground her teeth in anger. "When you say leeway you mean Ulli chose her husband."
"Among other things, yes."
Sylvia clenched her fists, following her thoughts with hate in her eyes. "Let him try to scare me into a marriage of his choice. If need be, I will run to grandma and take a plane to cousin Ulli's house in Italy. She is always helpful to cover for my escapades," Sylvia told herself, enjoying that bit of backbone as she held her chin up.
Bjorg glanced at his daughter and lifted his eyebrows. "Do nothing stupid. General Hazug wants the marriage. You are not crazy to go against his wishes."
"The general," she whined, hate leaving her face to give room for fear. "But you said the guy's lawyers approached you."
"Yes, they did, but they came to us because General Hazug sent messengers to call Victor's attention to you."
"It's my life, dad."
"Don't be ridiculous. It's a simple business arrangement."
Sylvia's blue orbs watched the Mounted Guard ride down headed to the Palace of Whitehall. The summer morning brought up glints and sparkles from the breastplates and the drawn sabers. Their plumed helmets' smooth movement as they rode on groomed horses was quite a sight.
The Palace of Whitehall met its end in a fire in 1698, but the guard stayed on protection duty. Only the wine cellars remained, in the depths of the Ministry of Defence.
The tradition was one of Sylvia's favorite things. She loved the whole change of guards, but as her father drove to the country her mind wandered.
She remembered the hot moments with her clients. Everything would change if she married. Alfred would not risk her father plus a husband discovering their business.
Sylvia mewled for mercy. "I don't know the guy, father. How can I marry a total stranger?"
Bjorg hit the steering wheel with the open palm of his elegant hand. "As if you cared. You are a whore!"
Silence engulfed the car.
Sylvia shook her head. "What do you mean," she asked with caution.
"Do you take me for an idiot, Sylvia?"
As the question said in the calmest of voices hit her on the face, she understood. "You know," she mumbled with disbelief.
Bjorg Knaast was colder than the Maelstrom of his home country when he answered with the bored tone of a museum guide in the last round of the day.
"Yes. I ordered Alfred to suggest you the deal. He was the safest choice for you. He was efficient, wasn't he?"
"He was efficient. Is that all you have to say about the whole deal?"
"Yes. Alfred deserved the money. He is a faithful servant of the General."
Sylvia couldn't believe her ears.
"You found a pimp for your only daughter," she whispered.
Bjorg smiled. "I checked every client myself. I have always watched you. You are a Knaast and there is a way a Knaast needs to live, and there is the hunger you need to feed. You were never free to choose. I am the Knaast priest, and I did what you needed. You are a Knaast and it is time you knew what it means."
"And Ulli?"
"Ulli is not my daughter. Her father made decisions in her name. But I am not stupid. My brother was."
"Is this why you killed him?"
Bjorg sighed. "Look at the whole picture, Sylvia. I have plans. I couldn't have a competitor. He had to die."
"Greed and power."
The Knaast priest shrugged. "Yes."
"And if I am in your way," she couldn't finish.
Bjorg shrugged again and Sylvia this time asked.
"Stop. I am sick."
So when he parked, she threw up her illusion of a family and swallowed the bitter truth and her curse.