Chapter 16
“When I saw him last night, though…” Savannah Pierce exhaled, the thin curl of cigarette smoke twisting into the dim air between them. Her lips curled at the edges, eyes flickering with amusement. “Loading things onto a pickup truck… and with a heavily pregnant woman in tow. And that too, in Montera Springs, of all places.”
She shook her head, laughing lightly, like she still couldn’t believe it. “I thought I was seeing things. That no way—no possible way—it was Andrew Curt I had just laid my eyes on. One of the richest men in the world. The owner of Virex—a billion-dollar sports car company. You know Virex, don’t you?” Her voice was teasing now, dripping with something close to mockery.
Andrea felt her stomach churn violently, but she said nothing. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“But then,” Savannah continued, inhaling another drag, “he was supposed to be in London.” She sighed, feigning disappointment. “See, he had this grand, dramatic fight with his mother—oh, you should have seen it! The kind of public blowout that makes headlines for days. An absolute scandal.” Her eyes glinted as she looked at Andrea. “And then… he disappeared. Poof. Just like that.”
Andrea’s nails bit into her palms.
“Of course, the company PR team had to smooth it over—said he’d gone to London on ‘business.’ The press moved on. No one questioned it much after that.”
Savannah stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray beside her.
“But me? I questioned it.”
She leaned forward slightly, her smile widening.
“Because no matter how absurd it seemed, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I know that face,” she murmured. “He doesn’t have a face one forgets so easily, does he?” Her eyes locked onto Andrea’s with something dangerously close to delight.
“The most eligible bachelor in America for three years in a row,” she continued, her voice lilting with amusement. “Those piercing blue eyes. That razor-sharp jawline. That entire goddamn impossibly perfect face.” She tilted her head, as if daring Andrea to agree with her.
Andrea’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she refused to give Savannah the satisfaction of a reaction.
“But of course, that would have been impossible, right?” Savannah shrugged dramatically, as if recounting a great mystery novel. “The Andrew Curt—one of the world’s richest men, heir to a billion-dollar empire—couldn’t possibly be here, in a run-down town like Montera Springs, playing house with some… pregnant woman.”
She arched an eyebrow at Andrea.
“And yet… he was.” Andrea’s breath hitched, her fingers curling tighter. Savannah smirked. “So, I started digging.” She leaned back, crossing her legs, savoring the moment.
“And guess what, sweetheart? He never arrived in London. Not once. Not in the last three months.” Andrea’s stomach plummeted. Savannah’s eyes gleamed.
“I even called his London office—pretended to be an employee, you know, one of those scared little interns just ‘checking in’ on their boss.” She chuckled. “Every single one of them had the same answer—he wasn’t there.”
Andrea felt cold. A creeping, bone-deep kind of cold. Savannah let the silence stretch for a long, agonizing second before her smile widened. “So, is that why you came to see him this morning?” Andrea finally asked, her voice quieter, more dangerous.
Savannah hummed, as if thinking about it. “Well, yes,” she admitted, flicking her wrist. “I had hit a jackpot. If Andrew Curt had vanished off the face of the earth and only I knew where he was…” She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, the possibilities.”
Andrea swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling too quickly.
“I reached out to Mrs. Curt—his dear, dear mother.” Savannah’s lips curled as she said the words. “Got through to her lawyers this morning, actually. Weird lady, really, very cold. But ecstatic when I told her I had found her son.”
Andrea’s ears started ringing.
“She was here within hours,” Savannah continued lightly. “Came storming into this very lobby with her entourage—and his fiancée.”
The air was sucked out of the room.
Andrea’s vision blurred at the edges, the words reverberating inside her skull like a gunshot.
His fiancée.
Savannah’s grin widened, watching Andrea’s reaction like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
“They picked him up right there,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Dragged him right out of this dump of a hotel and back to New York.” She tilted her head, her voice a mix of amusement and cruelty. “Funny, isn’t it?”
Andrea’s world tilted.
Savannah exhaled slowly, the cigarette dangling between her fingers as she studied Andrea with sharp, hawk-like eyes. Enjoying this.
“The only reason I’m telling you all this,” she said, her voice smooth and cutting, “is because you’re still a part of this great mystery I couldn’t quite solve.” Her lips curved as she took another deep drag, the smoke curling in lazy patterns between them.
“I asked him, you know.” She flicked the ash off the cigarette, her nails gleaming under the dim light. “So many times. What was he doing in Montera Springs? Why was he here? And do you know what he told me?”She let the silence stretch.
“Nothing.” Her head shook slowly, a smirk playing at the edges of her lips. “No answers. Not a single one.” Andrea’s nails dug into her palms, pressing crescent-shaped indentations into her skin.
Savannah tilted her head, her gaze flickering down to Andrea’s swollen belly. The realization in her eyes was sharp—dangerous. “But maybe you know.” Andrea stiffened.
“What was he doing here… with you?” Savannah’s voice dropped, edged with a cruel curiosity. “And that kid you’re carrying… is it his?” A single beat of silence.
“And why the hell,” she mused, eyes narrowing, “were you calling him Asher?” Something inside Andrea snapped. She turned on her heel, refusing to answer, refusing to let this woman see any more of her. Because it didn’t matter anymore.
Asher—no, Andrew Curt—was gone.
The man she had shared whispered secrets with in the dead of night. The man who had traced his fingers over the curve of her stomach, murmuring words she had almost believed. A billionaire. An empire. A mother who had come to collect him. A fiancée.
She had known this moment would come. And it had. Her feet ached. Her head pounded with the weight of it all. But she walked. She walked. Out of the room. Down the hall. Through the doors of that godforsaken hotel and into the night, the cold air slashing against her skin.
She kept walking, even as the world blurred at the edges. Even as something inside her splintered. Because the world had betrayed her. Again. And this time, she had no one to blame but herself.
She bolted inside her little house, slamming the door shut behind her with a force that rattled the hinges. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she turned the lock—once, twice, thrice—until she was sure no one could follow.
Then, silence.Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her temples. So stupid. So, so stupid. Why did it hurt? Why did it hurt this much? He had gone back. Back to his life. His real life. He belonged there, with his fiancée. He was happy.
That’s what she told herself. Again. And again. And again. But saying it was one thing. Believing it was another.
Andrea didn’t cry. She couldn’t.
Instead, she sat—curled up on the sofa, her arms wrapped around her belly like she could shield herself from the truth. The bedroom was only a few steps away, but it felt like another world. She didn’t dare go back in there.
She stayed awake all night. Wide-eyed. Hollow. Not moving.
The world outside kept turning—cars passed, the wind howled through the trees, the distant sound of morning birds chirped in the distance—but inside, in this tiny house that had once felt like a sanctuary, time stood still.
Then, her phone rang.
The shrill, piercing sound cut through the quiet, making her flinch. Her fingers fumbled as she reached for it, her mind still sluggish from exhaustion. She pressed the phone to her ear.
"Andrea Mercer?" The voice was unfamiliar. Sharp. Professional. She swallowed, her throat dry and raw. "Yes," she rasped. "My name is Robin Hawthorne," the voice continued smoothly. "I work for Mr. Andrew Curt. He has personally requested—"
Click. Andrea hung up. Her thumb had slammed the button so hard, she heard the crack of her nail against the glass. Her pulse pounded, her breath coming faster now. She stared at the phone in her hand, her vision tunneling. Then—The phone vibrated against her palm.
Ring. A second time. A third.A fourth. Over and over and over, like a drill boring into her skull.Like a relentless ghost clawing at her, demanding to be let in. Andrea gritted her teeth, her grip on the phone tightening until her knuckles turned white.
And then—SNAP. She stood up so fast the blood rushed to her head. With a sharp, furious inhale, she threw the phone across the room with everything she had.
It hit the wall with a sickening crack, the impact so forceful that it knocked over a picture frame. Glass splintered across the floor, jagged shards catching the early morning light. The screen lay shattered—scattered in a million tiny pieces.
Just like her. Andrea lay motionless on the couch, her body sinking into the cushions as if gravity itself had doubled its grip on her. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She barely even breathed. Her stomach growled.
She ignored it.
The hunger was just another ache. Another thing she refused to acknowledge.
Outside, the world was waking up—neighbors’ doors creaked open, birds called out to the rising sun, the distant hum of life carried on as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Her hands, limp against her stomach, twitched as she forced herself to think about something—anything—other than the gaping hole in her chest.
Work. She needed to find another job. Soon.
She had been surviving on meager savings, scraping by with the little she had left. But now?
Now, she had no choice.
Her eyes flickered to the small wooden table near the door. The milkman would arrive soon. She had to cancel the order.
No more fresh milk. No more pretending she needed it.
And the newspaper. That damn newspaper. She needed to cancel that too.
The thought of it arriving tomorrow, of flipping through the pages and stumbling upon his name, his photo, his life—untouched, unshaken, as if she had never existed in it—made her stomach twist.
Her fingers moved absently, counting.
Counting the days. The hours.
Between now and her due date.
Just a distraction. Nothing more.
A mindless calculation to keep herself from slipping into the pit of pain waiting beneath the surface.
Her porch needed cleaning. The grass outside was too long.
If she didn’t cut it, the summer heat would turn it into an overgrown mess.
And the baby—the baby would be here soon.
She would have to babyproof things. Lock the cabinets. Secure the furniture. Make sure the house was safe.
Someday.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
But someday.
She planned, despite knowing she wouldn’t move.
She counted, despite knowing the numbers meant nothing.
She thought of things so far away, so impossibly distant, just to keep herself from thinking about the one thing she couldn’t bear.
The fact that he was gone.
And that she was still here.
The sun blazed high in the sky, its scorching light pouring through the windows, casting sharp, golden lines across the wooden floor. The air inside the house was thick, stale, the remnants of last night’s suffocating silence still clinging to the walls.
Andrea lay motionless on the couch, exactly where she had been all night.
The TV blared at full volume—some bridal reality show, the same episode of Say Yes to the Dress playing on an endless loop. The women on screen gushed over lace and satin, debating the perfect gown for their perfect day, but the words barely reached her.
It was just noise. A wall of meaningless sound between her and her own thoughts. Then came the knock. A dull, rhythmic thud against the door.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Ignored it. Maybe they’d go away. Maybe they’d realize she wasn’t in the mood. Maybe they’d understand that she wanted nothing and no one. But the knocking didn’t stop. It grew louder.
More insistent. A sharp reminder that she was still here, still in this house, still existing when she didn’t particularly want to. With a sigh, she forced herself up. Every movement felt like dragging cement—her body unwilling, uncooperative. She shuffled toward the door, her bare feet cold against the wooden floor.
When she cracked it open, the sunlight hit her eyes like a slap. And there stood Mr. Dylan.
A man in his late fifties, with graying hair and kind eyes that carried just a little too much pity. He wasn’t family. Not a close friend. Just a neighbor—someone who had noticed. And in his hands, he held a reusable plastic container.
“I thought I’d drop by with some food,” he said, his smile warm but hesitant. Andrea stiffened. Her fingers clenched around the doorframe, nails digging into the old wood.
“My wife accidentally made too much,” he added quickly, sensing her discomfort. “Try it—I’m sure you’ll like it.” The smell of something warm, home-cooked, drifted toward her. Something rich and familiar.
She swallowed. Her stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the weight of accepting kindness when she wanted to disappear. For a second, she considered slamming the door. But instead, she reached out, took the box, and mumbled, “Thanks.”
It was a lie.
She didn’t want it. She didn’t want anything. But Mr. Dylan just nodded, as if he understood anyway. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away. Andrea closed the door.
It started with the milk. The sun had barely risen when the milkman knocked at her door, as he did every morning. Andrea pulled the door open with a blank expression, the weight of exhaustion clinging to her bones. “I won’t need it from tomorrow,” she said, arms crossed over her chest.
But the milkman simply shook his head. “It’s already paid for, Ms.” He set down the two glass bottles at her feet. Andrea frowned. A strange, uncomfortable sensation crawled up her spine. “For how many days?” she demanded.
The man hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides, his eyes darting away, as if he was not allowed to answer. Andrea’s stomach twisted.
She knew. But she said nothing. The next day, Mr. Dylan appeared again.
This time, he didn’t knock—he simply walked in when she cracked the door open. “I brought something,” he said, holding up a container filled with food. Andrea took a step back. “I don’t—”
“I know,” he cut her off, gently but firmly. “But it’s here. And you need to eat.” She wanted to refuse. To tell him to leave her alone. But the smell of warm food hit her like a fist. Her stomach clenched. Not from hunger.
From the unbearable kindness.
The third day, it escalated. A worker from the general store knocked, carrying bags filled with eggs, vegetables, bread—things she hadn’t ordered. “Delivery for Ms. Mercer,” the man said, handing over the receipt.
Andrea didn’t even glance at it. “I didn’t order this,” she snapped. The worker barely blinked. “It’s paid for, under your name.” A slow, cold rage spread through her chest.
She knew. She had known from the very first moment.
Andrew Curt. The billionaire. The man who had promised nothing and left her with everything.
He wasn’t here. He wasn’t standing at her door, apologizing or explaining. He wasn’t offering his hand or his presence. Instead, he was throwing money. Money for milk. Money for food. Money to make himself feel better about walking away.
Andrea felt sick. She glared at the worker, her fists clenched at her sides. “I didn’t pay for this,” she said, her voice ice-cold. “And I won’t accept it.” She grabbed the door and slammed it shut.
The bang echoed through the house, rattling the windows. She stood there, breathing hard, her body trembling with something she refused to call pain. He could go to hell.
He could run his billion-dollar empire. He could marry his fiancée and live his perfect, gilded life. Andrea Mercer wasn’t a charity case. That evening, when she finally opened the door to take out the trash, it was still there.
The grocery bag. Sitting untouched on her porch. And right beside it—a pile of unopened letters. Letters she had ignored. Letters she would never open. She turned away and closed the door behind her, locking out everything.