Lured into Love (Blossom in Winter #2) - Melanie Martins Page 0,65

the reason you never wanted to take mine?”

“We are not here to talk about that,” I snarl back. “Do you want to wake up one day and learn our daughter is… dead? Choked by that man?” I reach for my mouth, containing the urge to cry at the simple thought of it.

“Oh, Tess,” Roy stands up, walking toward me. “We all know it was an accident, and it was twenty years ago.”

“Accident or not, make sure he keeps his promise and goes to Singapore,” I tell him, my tone threatening. “You know what’s at stake.”

And Roy does know what’s at stake—maintaining an immaculate reputation in New York has always been a priority for him and his business. It takes a lifetime to build a reputation, and one story to destroy it, I remember him saying every time there was a scandal about his peers on the news.

He drops his gaze, exhaling loudly. “Petra will never forgive me if I let him go. She’ll be devastated.”

“One day she will. When she’s cured, she’ll forgive us and thank us for doing the right thing.” Roy seems uncertain, so I proceed, “Our job as parents is not to say yes to her every wish. But to make sure she is safe. I prefer her to be mad at me and alive than happy and dead the next day.” His expression remains just as thoughtful, probably assessing my words. “She will meet someone else—trust me. Someone of her age. We are doing the right thing.”

My office falls into a twitchy silence as I observe Roy, his face severe, looking out the wall of glass at the horizon ahead. “What an ugly day to be in Rotterdam.”

Chapter 17

Manhattan, September 17, 2020

Alexander Van Dieren

Roy has been out for the past two days. Not that I’m bothered at not seeing him, but when your best friend tells you he’s taking two days off without any reason, you kinda expect some sort of explanation once he comes back.

I look again at the text message he sent me earlier today: Meet me at midday at The Knick, at 2 East 62nd Street. We need to talk. And I keep wondering why he’s chosen this place to meet up. After all, I’ve never been to that club before. Despite my dad being an active member, he never brought me there, but I guess there is a first time for everything. As my chauffeur drops me off right in front of Two East Sixty-second Street, I look at the clubhouse architecture—it seems like an average Neo-Georgian building in Manhattan. After pressing the doorbell, I see a gray-haired majordomo come and open the front door.

Before I can even introduce myself, he bows his head slightly and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Van Dieren.” Wow. My brows lift instantly, and I’m left quite astounded at how quickly he recognized me. “Mr. Van Gatt is waiting for you. Follow me, please.”

“Um, thanks,” I reply as I enter the hallway. Taking in my surroundings, I must admit the entrance is pretty elegant, with its white walls, chess tile marble floor, and white marble staircase covered with red carpet. We go up to the next floor. There, I follow the majordomo, who crosses the hallway and stops right in front of a closed wooden double door, which he knocks on three times.

“Come in,” we hear from the other side.

“May I take your jacket, sir?” he asks me before leaving.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

Then he opens the door, inviting me in. “Please.”

“Thank you.” Stepping into the room, I’m left speechless as I take in its immensity. It’s actually a two-floor wood-paneled room linked by a staircase—upstairs I can see walls covered with books, while on the current floor, where Roy is standing afar by the window, lies a typical lounge with a bar, sofas, a low table in the center, and a fireplace, surrounded by gilded gold frames of classic portraits hanging on the walls.

“Would you like a glass?” Roy’s question brings my attention back to him.

“No, thanks. I no longer drink before lunch.”

“Oh, that’s wise,” he replies, his tone contained as he walks in my direction. “Have you been here before?”

“No,” I admit, my eyes still taking in the surroundings.

Stopping in the center of the room, Roy says, “Only your father and I have the key to this room.” His face carries some sort of nostalgia as he starts pacing around and observing the portraits on the walls. “This room means a lot to me.” He pauses