Chapter 1
Prologue
July 1937
“Does the Führer know about this?” she asks suspiciously.
“Of course, dear. Just lean back, relax and enjoy being part of the creation of the Lord of the World,” the man says, pushing the woman, who is sitting on the marital bed, on her back.
The woman sits up in bed again, shaking her head. “No, I don’t believe you. I want to speak to him.”
“To the Führer?!” The man stares at her, utterly shocked.
“Yes, to the Führer. If he demands this… this… ordeal from me and my husband, the least he can do is explain why,” she says doggedly.
“You want to speak to him in person, or will a phone call suffice?” the man asks, his tone laced with sarcasm.
She hesitates, considering the question. “I would be far too intimidated to meet our Führer in person. A phone call will do.”
“He is waiting for your call,” a voice murmurs from the dark corner of the bedroom.
Instinctively, she wraps her arms around herself despite wearing a nightgown.
“Who is this?!” the woman demands, pushing herself up in bed until her back presses against the headboard.
A figure steps into the dim light, and she gasps. “Reichsführer! I… I didn’t know… I’m so sorry. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Then stop resisting the inevitable and fulfill your duty to your husband’s Fatherland. You and your husband agreed—don’t you dare go back on your word,” Heinrich Himmler says, his face twisted with barely suppressed anger.
“No, no, of course not,” Emma murmurs, her voice small.
“Then let’s get on with it, for heaven’s sake!” Himmler snaps.
“Are you… Are you going to stay?” Emma asks anxiously.
“Of course, I will stay. Now get on with it!”
Emma stays frozen against the headboard, her knees pulled up nearly to her shoulders as she clings to her legs in a vice-like grip. The man moves closer, and if she could, she would shrink away further.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against her bare feet. She flinches as a wave of nausea rises within her. Soft words coax her to relax and stretch her legs. Hesitantly, she complies—only for his hand to slide beneath her nightgown, his fingers probing.
“It’s no use, Reichsführer. She’s as dry as an old parchment,” he says exasperatedly.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Himmler exclaims before adding, “Neither of you is a novice in this game. You’ve read the report about her. Stick to it!”
“Sir, it might be helpful if you were to leave us alone,” the man replies.
“No. Now, get on with it! - Fetch some butter or any other lubricant if needed.
After lengthy coaxing and various techniques to make Emma compliant, she shuts her eyes and lets the man enter her.
Himmler pulls out his pocket watch and gazes at its glowing face. He mentally notes the exact moment when Emma and the man call out in shared bliss.
Chapter 1
Julia
“He and your father have retreated to the study,” my mother replies, not looking up from her knitting—a pastime she recently took up. According to Rita, she’s practising for the day she can knit all sorts of adorable little garments for her first grandchild. The problem with that assumption is that neither Rita nor I am pregnant.
“He might be asking for your hand in marriage,” Rita remarks with a wicked grin.
I roll my eyes and sink onto the settee, grabbing one of the newspapers scattered across the coffee table. Listlessly, I flick through it at a pace that quickly draws my mother’s attention away from her knitting.
“Are you nervous, Julia?” she asks, her eyes scrutinising me.
I shrug. “Why should I be nervous?”
“You must be wondering what your fiancé and our father are talking about,” Rita chimes in.
I shoot her a withering look. “I couldn’t care less. They’ve been having secretive talks ever since he arrived. He’s spent more time with Dad than with me,” I add, pouting.
“That’s an exaggeration, dear,” my mother says, returning to her knitting.
Not wanting to be the focus of our conversation, I ask, “What are you knitting so feverishly? I haven’t seen you do anything else in weeks.”
“A jumper for your father; it’s what he asked for as a gift for his upcoming birthday. His late mother used to knit jumpers, mittens, socks, and a variety of other items. I suppose he wants to remember her in that way,” she explains.
“I didn’t know you could knit, Mum,” Rita says.
“Neither did I until I gave it a go,” Mum replies with a smile, adding, “I must say, it’s very relaxing, and it gives me time to muse on all sorts of things.”
Rita and I exchange looks. I frown and ask, “Is he okay, Mum?”
“Who, dear?”
“Dad, of course.”
“Hmm, yes, he is,” she replies, her voice tinged with a sadness that makes both Rita and me lean forward in concern.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Rita asks.
Mum lets the knitting needles drop into her lap and buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake as she weeps bitterly. I get up, approach her, and place a comforting hand on the back of her head. Kneeling beside her, I wait for her to stop crying. Rita, with her long legs I’ve always envied, crosses the room in a few swift strides and joins us.
“Is it his heart?” Rita asks.
Mum nods, and her crying intensifies.
Rita and I exchange a silent look, choosing to remain quiet and offer our mother nothing but the comfort of our presence.
“What’s the matter with your mother?” my father asks as he enters the living room with my fiancé.
Rita shoots him a pointed look and says, “You should keep us in the loop about your heart condition. Mum can’t bear the brunt of it on her own.”
My father has the grace to blush. He clears his throat and says, “Well, I’m afraid my recent test results weren’t exactly encouraging. In fact, they were quite disappointing.” He sits down and gestures for Gábor to do the same.
My fiancé, who’s usually sporting a cheeky grin, now looks as sombre as a pallbearer at a funeral. I feel my heart start to race. Is my father going to die soon?
“Just as a precaution, of course, I’ve introduced Gábor to my business dealings, and I’ll continue to do so for the rest of his stay. Sorry, Julia, I didn’t mean to take him away from you, but…” his voice trails off. “It’s better to have someone involved when it comes to these matters.”
A grave silence fills the room. Only my mother’s sobbing breaks the stillness.
After a while, Rita asks, “How long did the doctors give you, Dad?”
“They didn’t want to commit to anything,” my father says, his voice attempting, yet failing, to sound light. “They advised me to get my affairs in order and prepare for the worst while hoping for the best.”
I’m stunned as I watch my sister bury her face in her hands, her body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Rita is the unemotional one—I’ve known her for years, and I’ve never once seen her cry. A wave of panic grips me, threatening to send me spiralling. Just as I feel the world tilt beneath me, Gábor’s steadying arms lift me to my feet, pulling me close. He envelops me in a firm embrace, his warmth offering a quiet anchor amid the storm of emotions crashing around us.
“Oh, come off it, you lot! I’m not dead yet!” my father exclaims, slapping his knobbly knee. “Cheer up, all of you! I don’t want to be mourned—neither now nor when I’m gone.”
I release Gábor and sit beside my father, taking his hand. “We’ll do our best, Dad, and you don’t need to apologise for talking to my fiancé. I’m happy you trust him to take over for you.”
“Hmm, you’ve got that wrong, Julia,” my father replies. “Gábor isn’t taking over; he’ll only act as custodian of my business until it’s sold to a private equity firm I’ve been negotiating with for the past few weeks.”
Rita and my mother stop crying and turn to him in shock.
“Fred, what are you saying? Is it really that bad?” my mother asks, desperation etched across her face.
“No, it’s not. I simply want to sell the business while I still can. Gábor, why don’t you explain?”
All eyes shift to my fiancé. Fewer and fewer people seem to notice his striking resemblance to Gregory Peck these days. However, I’m well aware of the comparison myself—thanks to Mum, who made us sit through countless classic Hollywood blockbusters. I must admit, men back then appeared far more… well, manly than the pretty boys that grace our screens today. Is that why I’ve fallen for this extraordinary Hungarian aristocrat?
“To spare you the tedious details, I’ll give you the short version,” Gábor says. “Fred’s assets and mine are roughly equivalent. Under different circumstances, we might have started our own private equity firm, but we decided against it. I’ve never worked as an investment banker, nor am I a professional financial expert—”
“You’re far too modest, Gábor,” my father interjects. “I spent my entire life building my fortune. You, however, made the right call at the right moment and matched my wealth in just a few years.”
Gábor shifts uncomfortably. “It was sheer dumb luck. I had only just left university when I stumbled upon an article about Bitcoin. As you all know, I have a penchant for puns, so back in 2009, I thought, ‘I’ve got a few coins; why not buy some Bitcoins?’ And so I did.”
Mum, Rita, and I exchange baffled looks.
My father chuckles. “I’m afraid they don’t quite grasp your little wordplay, Gábor. Let me clarify—he bought Bitcoin on a whim when it was going for $0.0009 each. A few days ago, it reached $100,000 per coin.”
Gábor and my father savour our dumbfounded expressions. It takes a full minute for the weight of his words to sink in.
“To gain leverage in the negotiations, I decided to match Fred’s assets one-to-one with fresh capital,” Gábor explains. “And bingo! The private equity firm agreed to pay a premium for Fred’s assets under those terms. Long story short, once the deal is finalised, you’ll all be set for life. No more financial worries, ever.”
He lets that sink in.
Mum starts crying again, while Rita and I are left speechless.
“Right,” my father says, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s have lunch.” He turns and starts making his way toward the dining room, his steps unsteady but determined.
---
“Thank you, Gábor. I needed to get away from my parents after that revelation. What do you think?” I ask, wrapping my arm around his as we walk toward downtown St Gallen.
“Don’t mention it. What do I think about your father’s health?” He exhales and shakes his head. “Well, he’s as sharp as a tack—when he’s awake. But he nodded off a few times, even mid-sentence. I’m not a doctor, but… he doesn’t appear to be in great shape.”
I squeeze his arm for reassurance. He stops, turns to face me, and says gently, “I know this may sound inadequate, but whatever happens, don’t let it consume you. He’s suffering, Julia, and I believe he wants it to end sooner rather than later.”
He sighs and adds, “He’s going overboard with the time we spend sorting out his business. He dives too deep into details—decades’ worth of them. Even though I’m taking notes, I can’t possibly absorb fifty years of history in just a few days.”
“No, of course not. We’re all glad you teamed up with him. I think this is one of those moments when he regrets not having a son,” I say, my voice filled with sadness.
“Nonsense! There are plenty of incredibly smart female financial advisors—many of whom are far more reliable than their male colleagues,” Gábor replies.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” I retort, though I appreciate the sentiment.
“Not at all! I mean every word of it. Lehman Brothers would never have collapsed if they’d been Lehman Sisters.”
“You’ve told me that before. I wonder if you’re right.”
“You can bet your sweet boopie on it, Julia! Women are more reliable and far more sensible than men. Sometimes, I wonder why you lot even bother marrying us,” he says with a playful wink.
“Life would be far too easy without you,” I reply, returning the wink. I developed the habit of winking during the Hungarian Prime Minister’s peace mission last summer.
“And vice versa, my dear,” he grins. Then, abruptly changing the subject, he says, “Listen, I need to buy a pair of shoes. I’m not familiar with the shops in St Gallen. Do you have any recommendations?”
I nod but chortle as I say, “That’ll be the most expensive pair of shoes you’ll ever own, dear.”
He looks puzzled. “Why’s that?”
“It’s Sunday,” I explain.
He shrugs. “So what?”
“We’re in Switzerland. Shops are closed on Sundays. So, unless you plan on breaking in, you’re out of luck.”
“Oh, sugar! I forgot,” he says, slapping his forehead. “Shall we go to your place, then?”
“I’d love to, but I just remembered—the annual WEF gathering is next week, and my father wants to attend. In his condition, that would be a disaster,” I say, frowning.
“Do you want me to talk him out of it?”
“You can truly read me like a book, Gábor. But I warn you—it won’t be easy. He’s immensely proud to be an integral part of that elitist club,” I say, struggling to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Uh-oh. Do I detect a hint of resentment?”
“Yes, you do. I have no patience for self-important elitists with a Messiah complex,” I reply, this time lacing every word with venom.
“Haha! I could’ve said the same thing—and I’m blue-blooded,” Gábor remarks, clearly amused.
“I know. And honestly, I find that rather disturbing at times.”
“That I’m blue-blooded?”
“Yes. It feels like fraternising with the enemy,” I say, giving his arm a playful slap.
“Ouch! For a suffragette, you’re about a century too late. What’s with this rebellious streak against the world’s movers and shakers?”
“I just told you,” I snap, exasperated.
“Ah, yes. You did. ‘Self-important elitists with a Messiah complex,’ right?”
“Exactly. I can’t stand them!”
“Then why don’t you write about them?”
“You’re joking. My reputation is already in shreds after those unbiased articles about your Prime Minister’s peace mission. If I go after the WEF bigwigs, I’ll be blacklisted for good.”
“So?” Gábor shrugs. “That makes it the perfect time. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
I stare at him, searching his face for any sign he’s messing with me. But he’s dead serious.
“You are financially independent, Julia, and you always will be. It would be an unforgivable waste of your talent not to expose those who abuse their power daily,” he says, his voice steady.
“Hmm… when you put it that way… Yes! I will investigate the WEF! Will you help me?” I ask, hoping for the answer I want.
Gábor smiles. “Julia, it would be an honour to assist you in any endeavour.”
We stop walking, wrap our arms around each other, and hold on—long enough that passersby start staring. But we don’t care.
Then my phone buzzes. I sigh and let go of Gábor to answer it.
“Sorry, it’s my mother. – Yes, Mum? – Okay, I’ll tell Gábor. We’ll head back now. We should arrive in about half an hour.
I hang up, and Gábor raises an eyebrow. “Your father finished his nap and is looking for me?”
“Yes,” I nod. “Let’s walk back.”
---
“Did you ask Gábor to talk to your father about attending the WEF meeting in Davos?” my mother asks anxiously.
“Yes, I did. He’s agreed to make Dad see reason and convince him not to go.” I pause, then add, genuinely curious, “How long has Dad been a member of the WEF?”
My mother sighs, her knitting needles clicking away as if her life depended on them. “Now that you ask… I really don’t know. It’s been ages. It costs an arm and a leg to be part of that exclusive club, but your father has never been one to pinch pennies.”
“Has The Economist run many articles about the WEF?” I ask.
My mother gives me a pointed look. “Well, we could hardly call ourselves The Economist if we hadn’t covered the World Economic Forum, could we, Julia? What’s with this sudden interest? Please don’t tell me you want to investigate them.”
“Why not?” I challenge.
She halts her knitting and turns to me. “You’d produce one of your notoriously impartial articles. That wouldn’t sit well with them, I can guarantee you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why do you call my articles notoriously impartial? Aren’t they impartial?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, which indicates to me that she’s worried—she hasn’t even picked up her knitting needles. “I’m just being nasty, that’s all. You mastered, in a short time, mind you, what we old hacks lost within a year of graduating.”
I lean in, intrigued. “What’s that?”
She thinks for a moment, then recites, “Today, Alex Invites Irene For A Refreshing Picnic, Maintaining Hope—that is, Truth, Accuracy, Independence, Impartiality, Fairness, Accountability, Respect for Privacy, and Minimising Harm. Did I get it right?”
“Perfectly! Is that bad?”
“No, not at all,” she states seriously. “It’s something we journalists should uphold throughout our lives. However, as I mentioned, we often don’t. We concede to our editors, public opinion, and political pressure. You name it. Many of us feel frustrated because we lack the strength to stand up for our core beliefs.
“Well, I should be used to my articles going down with my readers like a cup of cold sick,” I say, watching my mother’s reaction.
“Oh, Julia, really! You should let that go!” she huffs. “I apologised for that remark a million times. Give your old mother some slack.”
“In due time, Mum,” I grin. “But seriously, why shouldn’t I investigate the WEF?”
She exhales heavily, her shoulders sagging. “The ghost is out of the bottle now. You’ll cling to that idea no matter what anyone says to dissuade you.” Her voice softens. “And I’m in no mood to fight. Not with your father on the brink of...” She trails off, blinking rapidly.
A lump forms in my throat as I watch her struggle to hold it together. I start to get up, but she raises a hand to stop me. “It’s okay. I have to live with it.”
She dabs at her eyes and forces a thin smile. “I’ll ask my editor to send you all our articles on the WEF. Will that make your notoriously impartial article any easier?”
“Absolutely! Thank you so much. That’ll keep me busy for a while.” I pause, then ask, “When was the WEF founded?”
My mother gives me a pointed look. “Really, Julia. I’m your mother, not Google. I don’t know. It’s been around for ages.”
“Haven’t you ever written about them?”
“No, I haven’t. However, now that you mention it, my editor asked me once or twice to cover Davos. But I said no—I couldn’t write an unbiased piece about an organisation my husband was a member of.” She shrugs. “My editor wasn’t happy, but he accepted my refusal.”
Then, with a knowing smile, she adds, “If you promise to behave yourself, I might be able to rustle up a press pass for you to attend—if you’re interested.”
I place a hand over my heart, lift my right arm, and vow solemnly, “I swear not to bring shame upon you while covering the next WEF meeting.”
She sighs, shakes her head, and reaches for her phone. She dials her editor in London. A few minutes later, she hangs up and says, “It’s sorted. Your press pass will be FedExed today.”
---
“Your father has decided not to attend the WEF meeting,” Gábor says with a broad grin. “However, he asked me to go in his place—posing as his assistant. He apologised profusely, but it was the only way he could bow out without raising suspicion. I don’t mind, though. So, in a week, I’ll be rubbing elbows with the upper crust.”
“Thank you! You’ve just made my day. I was worried Dad would stubbornly refuse your offer,” I say, narrowing my eyes playfully. “Though now that I think about it, sending you there might have been a terrible idea. There will be plenty of glamorous women swanning around.”
Gábor puts on an expression of pure innocence, which nearly makes me burst out laughing.
“I hope you will be too busy chasing women while you’re there,” I add, pretending to be serious.
“You only had to worry about whether Olivia Cooke would attend,” he says, his tone inadvertently sincere. Then he catches himself and smooths it over. “But you look much better than she does. Plus, you’re at least a decade younger than she is.”
“Five years, to be precise,” I correct, adding, “but I’m hardly as glamorous as she is.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he replies with a glint in his eye. “You’ve got assets she can only dream of,” he adds, his gaze lingering unapologetically on my boobs.
My face turns pink, yet I can’t help but grin, a wave of self-satisfaction washing over me.
“Why don’t you tag along?” he suggests.
“And what assistant gets to bring his girlfriend?” I scoff. “Have you ever been to Davos before, Gábor?”
“No, I can’t say I have. Our PM has been there once or twice during my time with him, but he never asked me to join. Why?”
“It’s a tiny village with very limited accommodation. Even the most spartan room can cost over 500 francs a night.” I pause, then smirk as I catch the wishful look on his face. “And no, before you ask, that’s a single room—with none of the services you’re imagining, you philanderer!”
“Well, I suppose I could book a hotel a bit outside Davos,” Gábor suggests.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” I reply. “The traffic is horrendous—there’s gridlock before the meetings start and just as bad in the evenings when they end. A few years ago, my father and I spent three hours each way stuck in jams. Add the hour and a half between Davos and St Gallen, and you can imagine the nightmare.”
“If your father attended regularly, maybe he has a good address for me?” he asks.
“I can do even better,” I say, stifling a giggle. “After that ordeal, Dad bought a chalet there. You can stay—at the seasonal rate, of course. That’s a thousand francs per night. I assume you’ll be there for five nights?”
I watch as Gábor flinches.
“Uh-huh, sure, no problem,” he mutters. Then, brightening, he adds, “Maybe we could go a bit earlier and spend a few days—”
“—and nights,” I interject with a wink.
He grins. “Exactly!”
“We split the rental fee fifty-fifty?” I ask.
“You Swiss are far too obsessed with money,” he scoffs. “I’ll pay for two weeks. Let’s pack and go!”
“You Hungarians are far too impulsive,” I retort. “I need a bit more time to warm to the idea of spending days and nights in bed with you.”
“Oho! Planning a tryst, are we?” Rita barges into our conversation, seizing upon entirely the wrong idea.
“We’re planning an early arrival in Davos for the WEF meeting, Rita,” I explain, rolling my eyes. Sometimes, she can be downright insufferable.
“Oh, good! That means Dad agreed not to attend, right?”
“You’re catching on fast,” I reply dryly.
“Can I come too?” she asks eagerly.
“Certainly not!” I snap. “I thought you had to work.”
A surge of irritation bubbles up inside me. This isn’t the first time my sister has tried to worm her way into my fiancé’s good graces—or worse. And Gábor, the absolute scoundrel, is grinning like the Cheshire cat at the prospect. He’s always so taken with her shapely legs, which, of course, appear to be at least four inches longer than my stubby ones.
“I’d be skiing all day,” Rita says with an innocent expression.
“I’m not worried about the days, Rita, but about the nights,” I shoot back.
“Julia, how can you even think I’d try it on with your fiancé?!” she exclaims, feigning outrage.
“Because I know you,” I reply dryly.
“Ladies, please,” Gábor interjects, shaking his head. “You’re talking about me while I’m standing right here. Rita, you’re a lovely woman and undeniably desirable, but a threesome is not on the table—”
“Why not?” Rita cuts in, grinning. “We’d be keeping it in the family.”
She basks in our stunned silence for a moment before relenting with a laugh. “Relax, I’m only joking. Luigi’s coming too.”
Gábor and I exhale in perfect unison. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod, and I take the cue.
“In that case, you’re both welcome to join us.”
