Leave Petra? My fiancée? The woman I nearly lost? No fucking way. “I’d prefer to go to court and face that evil bitch than leave Petra. If she wants to press charges against us, she can go ahead and—”
“Enough!” He punches the low table, making his glass tremble. “I should’ve never supported this relationship in the first place! It was such a fucking mistake.”
“You know perfectly well that I love her. I’m not perfect, but—”
“My decision has been made,” he interposes. And I have never hated him and the air he breathes more than now. Roy looks me in the eye and adds, “You’ll announce your departure and the new CEO at our annual dinner. You have a month to pick either Paulo or Mike. Tess will be watching your speech on livestream, so you better not screw up.”
“I can’t do it,” I snap, but Roy remains stone-faced and expressionless. “Petra’s health is so fragile. If I leave her—”
“She’s got an entire team of physicians to take care of her,” he barks. He pauses for a beat to regain his composure. “Petra has to get used to this new reality—a reality without you. It’ll be painful at first, but there is nothing time doesn’t cure.” And a sly smile escapes him as he adds, “Or a new love interest.”
At that instant, I clench my fists tighter to contain the urge to beat the hell out of him. But it’s not only my fists that are tight—my stomach is in knots, and my breathing is shallow too.
Then we are startled by knocking on the door and someone coming in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Van Gatt, but your driver Anthony is waiting outside.”
“Ah, yes. We are leaving now.” Roy gets up, fastens the button on his blazer, and walks toward the door. Once he passes by me, I put a hand on his shoulder, making him stop.
“Roy…” I stare at him, utterly baffled, my heart heavy, trying to find what is left of the man that is—or was—my best friend. “You can’t do this to us. We can fight back.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes finally meet mine. “But this is the end of it.” And before I can say anything else, he adds, “You’ve got a plane to Singapore tomorrow night.”
“What?” That’s the only thing I manage to say. He can’t be serious! “You want me to leave now?”
“The sooner the better.” Before I lose all remaining self-control, Roy gives me a quick pat on the back and says, “Now let’s go have lunch.” And he leaves the room and our unbearable talk behind.
Chapter 18
Manhattan, September 17, 2020
Matthew Bradford
There are few things I despise as much as having lunch with Pops. We could have a great relationship, though, if he’d stop behaving like someone stuck in the past century. We’ve tried many times to get closer, but each time we talk about politics, my social activism, my YouTube channel, or anything related to his job, we get into conflict. We are so different that the only thing in common we have is our surname. But in an effort to keep a semblance of a relationship with him, I’ve accepted an invitation to have lunch with him at one of his favorite restaurants. Upon entering, I briefly check the place and see only replicas of him—formal and boring dudes. He waves at me from afar, his short gray hair and fancy suit couldn’t blend any better with the rest of the crowd.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?” I greet mechanically as I sit across from him and drop my backpack from my shoulders. I then glance around the posh restaurant, and realize I’m the only one in jeans and sneakers. “I hope they have vegan options.”
“Yes, they do,” Pops replies, handing me the menu. “After waiting for you for half an hour, believe me, I had time to double-check.”
“Good,” I snap, and start checking the menu.
Leaning over a bit, he then asks with irritation, “When is this phase gonna end?”
And I can’t help but sigh at his comment. Putting down the menu, I say, “This is not a phase. This is the future.” Displeased by my answer, Pops lets out an exasperated breath and starts shaking his head. I’m already regretting having come here. “Look,” I start. “If we are just going to argue, it’s better that I leave.”
“How is your girl doing?” he asks to avoid an argument.
“First, she is not my girl,” I correct. “And this is stupid. No one belongs to anyone.”
Rolling his eyes, he says, “Sorry. How is your friend doing? Petra, right?”
“Yeah…” And I let myself dwell briefly on my thoughts. “She’s not doing well, unfortunately.”
“Really?” Pops asks with shock in his eyes. “You told me she was finally awake.”
“Yeah, but she is mentally ill.” As he gives me a confused look, I decide to open up. “She is engaged.”
He raises his brows in total disbelief. “At eighteen? To whom?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. I just know he’s got a hedge fund company.”
He rolls his eyes again, but this time I like it. “Oh, dear. Don’t tell me she fell for one of those assholes?”
“Yeah… That’s what I’m afraid of.” Leaning over, I say, “Petra has a good heart, like, really, I can’t explain it. When I told her I was starting a vegan diet, she was the only one who supported me all the way. So much so that she decided to do the same. We have this thing, you know, like, this connection.” Pops nods in perfect harmony with my words. “That dude once came to pick her up after exams,” I explain. “He was so full of himself. He even came in a Rolls-Royce. A Rolls-Royce, can you imagine? What a show-off,” I blurt out, my head shaking as I think of it. “She is just being lured with some cheap talk.”
“And I guess you’re going to save her…” Dad might sound like he’s teasing, but I take his words seriously.
“That’s what friends do,” I tell him. “She seems to like him a lot though. But that dude is gonna break her heart.” I take a sip of my water, and proceed, “It’s not healthy. I swear, he’s at least thirty-five. You have prosecuted people on Wall Street for decades. You know them, right?”
“Of course I do.” Pops leans closer to me, and in a lower voice, he says, “But that’s not enough to find out who her fiancé is.”
“I know…” Yeah, I kinda figured that out. And Petra is definitely not gonna tell me who he is out of the blue. She is so secretive about that, and I can’t help but wonder why.
“Good afternoon,” the waiter greets as he stands in front of us. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yes, please. I’ll have the filet mignon with potatoes,” Pops says. And as he orders his favorite wine, the sound of laughter breaks through the restaurant, and my attention goes to the table behind him.
To my surprise, the more I look at the dudes sitting there, the more I think I know one of them. I can’t really pinpoint from where, since I can only see half of his face, but his figure seems familiar. Suddenly, I see one of his middle-aged friends paying the bill and inviting the group toward the cigar lounge. As he stands up, I can finally see his entire face and—
Jeez!
My heart tightens at the view. That’s Petra’s fiancé!
“I’ll be right back,” I say to my dad, leaving the table as fast as I can.
“Excuse me…” I call out. But only the host and the doorman look at me, while Petra’s fiancé and his friends cross the double doors into the lounge.
As the host accosts me, I say, “Hi, I’m Matthew Bradford and—”
“Sorry, son. They are not recruiting,” the host brushes me off.
“Oh, no. Um, is that man that just entered the lounge Petra Van Gatt’s fiancé?”
At that instant, the host narrows his eyes and takes one step closer to me. “And may I ask why are you asking?”
“Um, I’m a close friend of hers. We are in the same class at Columbia. I remember seeing him once. I need to talk to him. It’s really urgent.”
He seems to be considering me attentively, and I already feel stressed as I observe him doing so. “What’s your name again?”
“Oh, Matthew Bradford, sir.
”
“Very well. I will call him.”
I think twice about trying to get into the cigar room too, but the tall, bulky doorman glares at me in refusal. I guess I’ll have to wait outside. After a few moments, though, the host comes out, inviting me in. To be honest, it’s my first time in a cigar lounge. I hate the smell of smoke. It reminds me of my Pops’s friends, and they are all boring and lame. As I step inside, I glance around out of curiosity. And it’s exactly what I thought it would be—a darker, cozier room, featuring leather Chesterfield sofas and armchairs, low marble tables, maple-veneered vitrines displaying different types of cigars, and an old-school vibe. Everyone here sports suits, some with ties, others without. I feel like an imposter in my jeans, white sneakers, and T-shirt. For some stupid reason, my right hand goes to my tousled hair, trying to make it more presentable among these middle-aged dudes. Then my eyes land on the man sitting in an armchair, talking to two other guys, one on each side. He seems to be the oldest, and from the way those dudes are looking at him as he speaks, he must be their boss or something. And as if he feels my eyes on him, his attention swings in my direction, his blue eyes landing on me.
“Mr. Bradford?” And here he is—the mystical fiancé of Petra Van Gatt. Just from his voice, he sounds like a criminal—a criminal of Wall Street.
Typical.
My dad has prosecuted many of his kind.
As he stands up to greet me, my eyes can’t help but dart down to the smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. He gives me a warm, welcoming smile and holds out his other hand. “Alexander Van Dieren.”
I usually never memorize names when people introduce themselves. But his… I’ll never forget it.
As I take his hand, I’m not expecting such a strong grip. Fuck! Did he do that on purpose or what? I try to appear unaffected, but damn it, it hurts like hell!
“Pleasure meeting you, sir.” What? Why on earth did I say “sir”? My tone is low and shaky. Not what I wanted. Clearing my throat, and aiming for a steadier one, I ask, “Um, may I speak to you alone?”
He looks behind him and beckons to the other two men to leave, then his gaze goes over my shoulder and I hear him say, “Roy, do you mind?” Wait! Roy? Isn’t that the name of Petra’s father? No, it can’t be. They wouldn’t be hanging out like besties. It must be someone else. I do my best to contain the urge to take out my iPhone and Google “Roy Van Gatt” and check out what her dad looks like.
As Roy and the other guys leave the room, the sound of the door closing behind me is enough to make me swallow dryly.
Before an odd silence settles between us, he takes a steady inhale of his cigar, then asks, “Do you smoke?”
“Smoking is not my thing,” I snap, trying to feign indifference. In reality, the smell of it is vomit-inducing! Jeez, how can anyone enjoy that shit?
He gives me a side smile. “That’s something Petra would say.”
And I smile, too, at the thought of it. “Yeah, she would.” Yeah, Petra would totally say that. She understands me like no one else.
He invites me to sit on the sofa beside him, and, taking his glass, he asks, “May I offer you a drink, at least?”
“I’m good,” I tell him, trying not to sit too close.
“Not even a glass of wine or champagne? A mojito perhaps?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
He chuckles, observing me attentively. “Of course you don’t.” He takes a sip of his drink, which seems to be whiskey. Reclining in his seat, he heaves a quick sigh, and starts considering me to the point that it’s uncomfortable. “So, Matthew Bradford, if you are not here for a job or an internship, then what are you here for?”
I’m here for way worse than that. And yet how am I supposed to tell him to leave Petra alone?
There is no other way around it. If I love her, I’ve got to do it.
Taking a long, deep breath into my lungs, I look him straight in the eye and say in my most confident tone, “I don’t think Petra should be with you.”
There! In your face, dude.
“Of course she shouldn’t,” he replies without any bother. As I sit there batting my eyes and digesting his words, he takes another inhale of smoke before puffing it out. “In fact, she should be with you. Or another pal her age. Don't you agree?”
I’m so astounded by his question that I don't even know what to say. “Um… yeah, I guess so.”
“Great,” he says, before glancing at his watch. “I’m gonna have to go.” Then he finishes his glass and stubs out the cigar in the ashtray.
“So…” My word trails off as I think of another way to approach this. “What do you intend to do about it?”
We get up from our seats at the same time, and he gestures for me to go first as he continues thinking something through.
“Matthew,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. And as he does so, we stop walking. “I need your help.” What? “Can you do me a favor?”
Another question I barely know how to answer. “Um, sure.”
“Can you convince her not to marry me?” My jaw nearly drops at his request. Is he joking? Is that some sort of Dutch sarcasm?
“Um, what do you mean?”
A side smile tugs at his lips, and he says, “What about putting a plan in place to get her to forget me?”
Squinting my eyes, I examine his face, fixedly trying to detect any traces of sarcasm, but his expression is dead serious. “A plan?”
“A plan,” he repeats. “What do you think?”
“A plan to convince Petra not to marry you?” I ask again, making sure I heard him properly.
“Exactly.” His hand goes down to his pocket, and he takes a business card from there. “Think about it. Here is my phone number. If you are interested, let me know, and we can discuss further tomorrow.”
Holy shit. He’s not joking!
“Well, that’s great. Um, thanks for your understanding.” I shake his hand wholeheartedly. “By the way, this talk stays between us, right?”
He pats me on the back. “Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my driver is waiting outside.”
“Sure. Um, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Van Dieren,” I say again, floating on cloud nine.
My eyes look absently at the double doors he just crossed through, still digesting everything that just happened.
Well, one thing is for sure: that was the weirdest talk I’ve ever had with someone. An old dude asking me to convince his young fiancée, whom I love, to drop him… Who would believe it?
Manhattan, September 18, 2020
Of course, I called Petra’s fiancé straight after classes the next day. And while I was expecting to meet him at a similar place like we were at for lunch yesterday—you know, at a restaurant with a cigar lounge—I was positively surprised when he invited me to his condo. Maybe it’s a trap, I thought when he did so. But, after all, he seems to be civilized enough, and I assume he just doesn’t want anyone to see us together. Before leaving for his place, I decide to call Pops out of precaution and give him the address. I’ve also got an alert ready to send to the nearest police station if anything goes wrong. Plus, with the psycho boyfriends my female friends used to date, we can never be too prudent. I never understood the appeal of those assholes, but then again, what do I know?
“Here we are,” my Uber driver announces, dropping me off at Mr. Van Dieren’s address. As I exit the car and head into the building, I’m greeted by a doorman who holds the door for me, just like at Petra’s. And, damn, this lobby is fancy as fuck! There is even a reception desk like in a hotel!
“Good afternoon,” the receptionist greets me with a pleasant voice. “How may I help you?”
“Um, good afternoon. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Van Dieren,” I tell him.
“Sure.” The receptionist takes a sheet of paper and a pen and puts them on the reception desk. “Write your name and signature here,” he says, pointing to blank spaces on the paper. “And I also need an ID card
.”
“Sure.” Damn, this is security to a whole new level.
“Very well. This way, please.” I follow the receptionist to the lift, where he presses the button that says “PH.”
I get in and wait patiently, while listening to the chill elevator music, before arriving at the PH floor. My breathing is faster than usual though. And I’m not sure why.
As the doors open wide, I see another hallway with only one door at the end. I guess that’s where he lives, since I see “PH” written on the wall beside the door. I press the doorbell and wait, my anxiety rising. After a few seconds, someone finally unlocks and opens the door.
My eyes land on a woman dressed in a dark blue uniform with a white apron—she must be the housekeeper. “Please come in,” she says with an accent.
As I step in, my eyes can’t help but widen in surprise. Wow. What a vision this place is! The interior design is so clean, minimalist, and contemporary that it’s surely won some kind of award. A female French singer is crooning from the speakers. Her dramatic voice, full of suffering and grief, gives me goosebumps, and it makes this place kind of scary.
“Follow me, please.” I follow the lady through the immaculate open space to the outdoor terrace. “Wait here,” she says as I’m about to cross the doorway onto the terrace. Looking up, I smile at the impressive skyline this place offers. Talk about a million-dollar view.
Then my eyes land on the back of a tall man standing afar, his hands on the steel railing as he contemplates the view. He looks at the lady, who whispers something to him, and then his head turns to the side, looking at me with a smirk. I do the same before I see he’s holding a cigarette. Oh, great! Does Petra know he smokes? I shake my head in displeasure. What a bad influence this guy must be.
Lured into Love (Blossom in Winter Book 2) Page 17