Holy Night

The sight from her luxurious apartment occupying the entire 87th floor of the One57 Skyscraper in Midtown West was incomparable. From its privileged position at the center of the city skyline, in the heart of what's known as Billionaire's Row, the residence offered a cinematic view of the City That Never Sleeps, from Central Park to the Hudson and East Rivers as well as Manhattan itself.

But what Grace van Beek was staring at tonight from the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows was beyond words. The Christmas lights, those yellow and blue and red and green LED strings adorning every corner of every street and wrapping the beating heart of the city in their artificial glow had changed the appearance of Manhattan, painting the drabness of the urban roads with a fresh coat of magic. Half of the population seemed to have reversed in the streets, some of them rushing for the Midnight Mass, others getting themselves involved in far less sacred celebrations. Regardless, whether it was for religious beliefs or driven by the more commercial and social aspects of this holiday, the Christmas Spirit was at its strongest tonight.

But not in that apartment. Having been raised in an agnostic family, although for some reason her grandmother always referred to this as the Holy Night, Grace was never interested in the religious aspect of festivity.

Tradition, that's what Christmas Eve has always represented to her. The one night of the year where the entire van Beek household, including her uncle Gaston and his family would all gather under the same roof for the traditional dinner. And then, at the stroke of midnight, her grandmother Elise would ask her to sit at the piano and play Beethoven's Bagatelle in A Minor, most commonly known as "Für Elise". That was the first piece she learned to play when she started taking piano lessons at the age of six, purposely to dedicate it to her beloved grandmother.

Her first Christmas away from home. One full year without seeing her family. And although never really alone, her personal detail never leaving her side, for the first time she was feeling lonely. Judging by the commotion coming from the next room, the laughs and the champagne popping, it was midnight. And just like the past sixteen years of her life, Grace van Beek sat down at her mahogany piano. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her skilled fingers started caressing the ivory and ebony keys, her mind racing through all those memories. She was no longer there, alone in New York. She was now back in Johannesburg, in the hall of the van Beek mansion. Her father and uncle were sipping whiskey, her brother texting his way too many lovers. And her grandmother, Elise, was sitting right next to her, humming the motif. Her, as well, with her eyes closed.

Grace always wondered why she would do that, only now realizing how that music had the power to carry your soul, to bring up memories. For a little over three minutes, she felt less lonely.

“Sixteen years, and you still miss that note.” Came a deep, male voice. A voice she would recognize between a million other voices, especially when followed by that unmistakable chuckle. Gregor van Beek, her brother, had entered the room a couple of minutes before, his presence announced but that horrible cigar he used to smoke. Grace smiled, but she didn’t leave her place at the piano. Once again, she began to play the piece, from the ascending A minor arpeggio. And this time it was a perfect execution, accompanied by a soft applause from her amused brother.

“When I was a child, father used to sit me on his lap to teach me how to play that part correctly.” She stood up from the stool, readjusted her silk robe and walked toward her unexpected guest. “When I grew up, it began the only occasion he would talk to me.”

For a moment, the slightest inflection in her voice could be heard, a hint of gloom in her usually a cold and set tone. “You know how the old man is…” Gregor was quick to reply, trying to, in some way, comfort her.

“Too busy to talk to his own daughter?” Came her answer through that forced, fake smile dawning on her crimson lips. “I was going to say he’s a dick, but that works as well, I guess."

He put his hand around his sister's shoulder. As unexpected gesture as this gesture of kindness may be, the young South African reaction was even more surprising. She sighed, indulging in that moment of tenderness."Did he ever ask about me? Does he follow my career, does he even care?"

"It's past seven on December 26 morning at home. Do you think mom or grandma would forget to wish you a Merry Christmas, unless the old man strictly forbid them to?" Part of her was expecting that answer, but hearing it? That stung.

"Does he even know you're here?" She asked next, resting her heads on his shoulder. "Nobody does…"

"Sir.. We have visitors." The croaky voice coming right into his ear from the communication device used to coordinate with his team, jolted Ryen Riekert from the light sleep he was slowly drifting in. First thing first, he immediately checked on Grace, finding her fast asleep. She went to bed early, shortly after midnight. He heard her playing a short piece at the piano before turning off the lights. "Who's there?" He asked his colleague tasked with entrance surveillance duties. But no answer came. Switching channel, he talked again. "Junior, Steve. Wake up. We may have a situation."

"Should I take miss van Beek to the safe room?" Asked one of them. "Be ready to." He said, drawing his gun and taking cover. Footsteps in the hallway, approaching the door. Riekert took a deep breath and said a little prayer. He didn't believe in God, but he did a lot of things he should ask forgiveness for. And now seemed like a good moment. Silence, they were at the door.

"Stand down, Ryen. It's me." Unfuckingbelievable… He muttered, lowering his gun. "False alarm, guys." You would expect him to be relieved by this recent development, and certainly the rest of his team was. But Riekert? He looked extremely annoyed as he walked to the door and opened it. "Why the fuck you didn't answer?" He grunted out at the younger of the two men standing on the threshold.

"I asked him not to." The older man, a distinct gentleman in his late fifties replied for the bodyguard. "I wanted to test your efficiency. It's the safety of my daughter we're talking about here." Gunther van Beek II said with that arrogant smirk of his. A lot of answers were going through Ryen's mind, and none of them was nice. Or appropriate for one, if not the most influential men in South Africa. And besides, you don't bite the hand that feeds. With a swift gesture of his hand, he dismissed the rest of the team, standing now alone in front of Grace's father.

"Miss van Beek is sleeping, but she'll gladly receive you, I'm sure." Before he could even take a step toward the Diamond Princess' room, a blunt "No" stopped him on his tracks. "You won't even tell her I've been here."

"Sir, she hasn't talked to you or anyone else in her family in a year. With all due respect, I believe that at the very least, she deserves to know you came to visit." Ryen tried to convince mister van Beek, but his reply was one to freeze the Head Of Security. "She would deserve to know what really happened back in May last year, don't you think?"

"That was your call…" Ryen clenched his fists, trying his best to keep his cool, more so when Gunther II laughed in his face. "My daughter thinks I hate her, she wouldn't be surprised to know that I lied. But you… She trusts you with her life. You're the closest thing to a friend she has, how do you think she will react, knowing that you lied to her for so long?"

The silence that followed was the heaviest Ryen ever experienced. For as much as he would have loved to hit that manipulative man that put him in this situation, he knew too well that he couldn't. Defeated he sat on the couch. "How is she doing?" Asked Gunther II, lighting up a cigarette. "She's been under a lot of pressure. The Chinese tour has been a true PR nightmare, then there was the whole acquisition of that Hong Kong based company that didn't quite go as hoped…"

Again, that irritating laugh interrupting Ryen's speech. "Do you really think that was just her buying a dead wrestling company, or promoting wrestling in China? It's almost like you don't know her…" Grace's father stared at Ryen, who, this time, held his gaze. "Or maybe, you know what she did and thought you could hide it from me. Now you know that you can't." His voice sounded quite threatening, which was exactly what Gunther II wanted. And then, without saying another word he left.