Page 24 of Baby for the Bratva King

I sip coffee mindlessly, staring at the screen as a photo of my father appears. He smiles like he’s a good person, and I remember the period of time, I wanted to believe that too.

And that’s where my mind goes.

Political figures in this city party hard.

I enter the Ritz, my heart pounding. This place is way too out of my depth. The ceilings are high, grand chandeliers hanging down.

“The lights are supposed to mimic golden hour,” says Fleur, standing beside me wearing an intricate yellow gown, the color of the sun. Her skirts fall all the way to the floor. Her dress looks much easier to walk in than mine.

Father put me in a deep wine gown, the mermaid skirt making it impossible to move easily. I hobble through the lobby, our father leading the way.

Fleur and I always come to these events wearing contrasting colors. They apparently reflect our personalities. Fleur is warmer, whereas I’m more reserved, according to him.

Fleur is blonde and might be more extroverted, but I would love to wear her gowns for an evening. My father always puts me in the most uncomfortable, figure-hugging dresses, because I apparently have the body for it.

It’s such an odd thing to say to your daughter, but I take what I can get with him, since he only gives me peanuts.

“Here, girls, come and join me,” he says, snapping his fingers.

My father is the thorn between two roses. We enhance his appearance, making him stand out in the media. Fleur is portrayed as the young, innocent one, the ‘ray of sunshine,’ as the media call her.

I’m the dark horse. The mystery. I enter events wearing dark tones, my hair always worn down, sweeping over my breasts. My cleavage is always on display.

I take one step into the room and already feel several pairs of eyes on my breasts.

They refer to me as “The one with the full chest.”

These men never step out of line while my father is present, but the second he steps aside, their gaze turns hungry.

Nothing ever happens, but I hate the way their eyes linger. I’m young and beautiful, and that makes me a target.

I become reserved as a result, accidentally stepping into the character my father wants me to play. I never speak. I smile on cue when the cameras appear, but that just about cuts it.

“Your daughters have grown up and become such beautiful young women,” says a man, shaking my father’s hand as he welcomes us to his event.

I glance at the man, the adoration turning to hunger when he moves on from Fleur and starts assessing me. “That red looks so elegant on you.”

“Saskia has always suited red, haven’t you, dear?”

I nod, wanting this night to be done already.

“How old are you, sweetheart?”

“My Saskia is turning twenty-one in just a few weeks.”

“Ah, such a milestone. She would look even more spectacular with a glass of red in her hand to match the dress.”

“Indeed,” says my father.

Jude Swindon is a well-respected politician and leader, adored by everyone, including my father.

My father has done a lot of sucking up over the years to get to this place, but when Fleur and I turned eighteen, he realized he could take a step back and let our faces do the talking.

This event is invite-only. My father is lucky to be here tonight. Philanthropists don’t usually attend these kinds of events. They run charity galas, marathons. Politicians are in a league of their own, and my father has officially broken into the exclusive world of the elite.

Jude accompanies us into the main part of the room, where a fire performer moves around the stage, sending sticks into the back of their throat.

The audience roars, applause filling the air.