Page 104 of Frozen Hearts
He has respected my fiercest of boundaries.
The Royce I’ve come to know, he challenges, he pushes, he thrives off driving you to the brink. But he doesn’t ever cross that line.
At least, he never has with me.
That somewhat settles me. Enough that I no longer feel as though I’m going to vomit. However, it does leave a plethora of unanswered questions. I’m curious to know what truly happened. Is that why he thought I was initially crashing into him on purpose?
At least now, I understand why he’s been coming to Lux. He’s probably Grayson’s little spy. He couldn’t send himself or Logan, which left Royce to suss out what I did within the club’s walls.
Although, he could have sat in the corner of the room and simply observed. He didn’t have to engage with me. Didn’t have to get so close. He certainly didn’t have to kiss me back.
And yet, he did.
I just don’t understand what that means.
On the other hand, it now makes sense why he kept persistently asking why I was at Halston. Did he think I was here for Grayson? Ha, that’s rich. I didn’t even know Grayson was here. I wish hewasn’there. After he kicked me and my mom out of the house, I lost track of what happened to him. My mom wasted no time shipping me off to St. Maria Maternity Home, where I was sequestered away from the rest of the world until Aurora was born. I wouldn’t have had a hope of discovering where Grayson ended up even if I’d wanted to.
I idle away the time, thinking about each of the three men living in the rooms surrounding me until the room is pitched in darkness and I hear the ominous creak of floorboards as one of the shadows stalks toward my room.
27
GRAYSON
“Inmate’s name,” the prison guard orders, fingers poised over his keyboard and gaze fixed to his screen. One thing I’ve learned over the years visiting my dad is that customer service isn’t a priority in a prison.
“Bertram Van Doren.”
I tap my foot impatiently while he types the name into his computer. I nearly didn’t come today. The thought of staying home and playing with our new toy sounded much more appealing. But it’s wise not to let myself get drawn into Riley’s orbit. Coming here—seeing Dad—will help me keep my priorities in line. Remind me of the purpose for all of this.
Then I can go home reinvigorated and make her pay.
I haven’t told Dad about Riley attending Halston. I’m not entirely sure how he will react, and I don’t want to be responsible for him losing his shit and ending up with a black mark on his record this close to his parole hearing.
“Go on through,” the guard states, not once looking my way. “Next!”
Dismissed, I move over to the security scanner, emptying my pockets of my wallet, phone, and car keys into the tray before stepping through. Another guard waves me on, and I retrieve my belongings once they’ve been scanned before moving down the corridor to the visitors’ area.
The room is a bustling hive of activity. Nearly every table is occupied as prisoners meet with their families and friends. I scan the busy room until I find my father sitting at a table in the far corner. Even in his bland gray prison uniform, he still dominates a room. His back is ramrod straight, dark hair cut short with flecks of gray that become more prominent every time I visit him, and he cuts his eyes around the room like he owns it.
Gaze catching mine as I make my way toward him, his face splits into a smile. “Son,” he greets, getting up from the metal table and giving me a quick, regimented, one-armed embrace. A slap on the back. “How have you been?”
I slide into the hard plastic bench on the opposite side of the table. “Good.”
“Classes going well? Grades solid?”
I give a curt nod. “Yup. Top of my year.”
“That’s my boy,” he states with a proud smile. “Living up to the Van Doren name.”
Yup, that’s me. The living embodiment that the Van Dorens are not self-righteous criminals only out for their own gain.
It’s who I’vehadto be since the day of his incarceration. The day the judge declared him guilty and sentenced him to five years behind bars. The day our family name took a hit, everyone started looking at us with disdain and whispering how we were just like the other wealthy, white, generational families who think only of themselves. I can’t say or do anything without first thinking it through from a hundred different angles, questioning how it might be perceived—by the media, investors, shareholders, clients, and the general public.
“How are you holding up?” I ask instead, directing the conversation back to him.
“Same old,” he says with a resigned sigh. “Bored. Ready to get out of here.”
“I’m sure. It hopefully won’t be much longer,” I try to appease, knowing there’s nothing else I can say or do to make it any easier for him. He’s already endured four years in here, what’s another couple of months?
