Chapter 18- draft
Something was wrong.A sensation like ice water poured down her spine, a visceral, primal alert that screamed at her before her mind could even comprehend why.Her breath hitched.Her grip on the garbage bags loosened.And then she saw him.Victor Remington.
He stood across the street, leaning casually against the sleek, polished body of his silver Audi as if he had been there forever, as if he belonged there. The morning light played over him, illuminating every sharp, angular line of his face, the dark waves of his hair, the effortless way he held a cigarette between his fingers.
His gaze was distant, fixed on something unseen—perhaps lost in thought, perhaps simply waiting.But he was there.Here.Real.Not a ghost conjured from the depths of her worst nightmares. Not a hallucination, not a memory creeping in to torment her like it had so many nights before.
Him.Her feet froze to the ground. Her pulse pounded against her ribs.Shock paralyzed her, twisting in her gut like a live wire, short-circuiting every logical thought.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.Victor—standing there in the flesh—was an impossibility. A nightmare that had crossed the boundaries of dream and reality.And then—almost as if he could sense her watching—his head turned.His eyes found her.And for the first time in weeks, the numbness cracked apart.
Panic gripped Andrea’s chest like a vice.For a fleeting second, she weighed her options. She could turn, rush back inside, bolt the door—pretend she had never seen him. But the thought was laughable. She was eight months pregnant, her body sluggish and heavy. If he wanted to catch her, he could do it with one leg and half the effort.
Her breath hitched as she stared at him, standing motionless at the edge of her porch. How long had he been there? The night was thick with silence, save for the distant hum of the streetlights, and yet, she hadn’t heard him arrive. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound—just stood there, staring at something unseen, his shoulders rigid, his presence an immovable weight in the air.
This wasn’t like him.Where was the sharp, commanding presence that always stormed into her life like a hurricane? Why hadn’t he knocked down her door, shouting, demanding that she open up and bend to his will like he always did? Where was the man who never took no for an answer?A sick, twisting dread coiled in her stomach.
Why was he here?The thought sent a shiver down her spine, cold and paralyzing. Was this it? Was he here to finally act on the threats his family had whispered in darkened rooms, the warnings she had forced herself to ignore? The ones that promised she would regret every choice she had made, every step she had taken away from them?
Her hands instinctively wrapped around her swollen belly, protective, desperate.She didn’t know how much more she could take.For months, she had endured fate’s cruel lashes—had stood firm even as the world chipped away at her piece by piece. But if this was another blow, if he had come to take the final piece of her that still remained—
She wasn’t sure she could bear it without breaking.She must have made a sound—maybe an unsteady breath, maybe the slight shift of her foot against the porch—because suddenly, he looked up.And when he did, Andrea felt her stomach drop.His storm-gray eyes locked onto hers, a torrential hurricane of emotion swirling in their depths. It wasn’t the cold, calculating gaze she remembered, the one that had always sliced through her like a blade, sharp with arrogance and control. No—this was different. It was raw, desperate. A man drowning in the weight of something unspoken.
For a moment, he just stood there, frozen in place. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed his cigarette to the pavement and crushed it under his boot, as if snapping himself out of a trance.Andrea’s pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out everything else.She should run. She should turn, bolt inside, lock the door, call the police—do something, anything. But her body refused to move, as if the air had turned to cement around her limbs. And then—he moved.
Slowly.Deliberately.
Each step he took across the road was unhurried, as if he was walking a tightrope between whatever storm raged inside him and the reality standing before him. His feet met the gravel of her driveway, then her front gate.And there—right at the threshold—he hesitated.Andrea saw it. The brief flicker of doubt, the small moment of restraint that had never belonged to him before. It was like watching a statue crack from the inside, a man who had been carved from arrogance and power suddenly uncertain, faltering.
Still, he said nothing.And neither did she.She wasn’t sure what to expect. For him to lunge forward, to grab her, to demand that she give in? To make true on the whispered threats his family had sent her way—warnings that had followed her like shadows ever since she walked away?But what she hadn’t expected—what shook her to her very core—was the way his eyes changed in the next moment.
Not with fury.
Not with vengeance.But with something that looked an awful lot like surrender.
And then—he broke.
Not with words. Not with an apology. But with the way his entire body seemed to fold in on itself, his broad shoulders sagging, his breath catching somewhere between disbelief and relief. It wasn’t a physical kneel—but it might as well have been. Because everything about him, the man who had once stood taller than life itself, looked like he had just crumbled at her feet.
His lips parted, the first sound escaping as a rasp, before he finally spoke.“God, Andrea…” His voice was wrecked. “I—I really didn’t believe I’d ever find you here.”And then, before she could react, he moved.
In one fluid motion, he closed the distance between them, his arms wrapping around her as he pulled her against his chest.
Andrea stiffened.
She should push him away. She should scream, shove him back, demand to know why the hell he was here. But for a split second—just one—she felt it.
The way his body trembled.
The way his fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt as if anchoring himself.
The way his head bowed over hers, his breath uneven, breaking.
“I looked for you everywhere,” he whispered. “Every city. Every town. Every damn state.”
A shaky breath.
“I thought—I thought I lost you.” His hold tightened, voice raw, barely holding together. “I thought I lost you and the baby…”
She hadn’t expected that.
Andrea sucked in a sharp breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock pulsed through her. For a brief, disoriented second, she remained frozen in his arms, her body stiff with disbelief. And then—revulsion set in.
With a sharp shrug, she wrenched herself free, tearing away from his grip as if his touch burned her. She stumbled back, putting two, three steps between them, her pulse hammering like war drums in her ears.
The audacity.
The sheer, goddamn audacity.
He stood there, still reaching slightly as if expecting her to fold, as if he thought she might actually need his comfort. The sight made something hot and livid burn in her stomach. This man—this wretched, heartless man—had the nerve to show up here, looking at her like some tragic hero, as if she were the helpless damsel in distress he had finally come to rescue.
Except she wasn’t.
And if she was in distress, if she was alone, if she was locked away in this small, quiet town scraping by to survive, it was because of him. Because of his choices. Because of everything he had done.
“You need to leave, Victor.” Her voice was quiet but laced with steel. “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
She meant it. Every syllable, every breath between the words, carried the weight of all the months of fear, of heartbreak, of struggling to put herself back together only to find she was still in pieces.
For a moment, he didn’t react.
Then, slowly, she saw it—the way his jaw tensed, the flicker of something breaking behind his exhausted, hollowed-out gaze. It was almost laughable. As if he had the right to look wounded. As if he had the right to be hurt.
“I understand that…” he said, his voice rough, strained.
Andrea nearly laughed. Do you?
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his hand clenching briefly at his side before his voice came again—lower, softer, like a man trying to hold back a storm.
“I understand why you’d feel that way. I know why you want me to go.”
For the first time, his eyes truly met hers—level, unreadable, yet heavy with something unspoken.
But then, in true Victor fashion, he pushed forward anyway.
“And I will go.” He exhaled, voice dipping lower, as if forcing himself to say it. “I’ll leave if that’s what you want.”
She didn’t trust him. Not for a second.
His kind of men didn’t just leave when told. They didn’t walk away when asked. They took. They demanded. They owned. And Victor, for all his current brokenness, for all the shadows under his eyes and the way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, was still Victor.
Still the man who had destroyed her life.
His lips parted slightly, his shoulders rising as if steadying himself for something, and then—
“Just listen to me once.”
Andrea’s breath hitched.
The look in his eyes sharpened, a flicker of something unyielding slipping through the cracks of his supposed remorse.
“Just once.” His voice was quieter now, but there was something dark in it, something resolute, something that said he wasn’t going to leave without this.
“I’ll leave after that.” A pause. “And I’ll never return.”
He lifted a hand, not to touch her, just enough to make her see it tremble slightly before it curled into a fist.
“I swear it.”
The house felt colder with him inside it.
It wasn’t just the chill in the air—it was him. His presence was an intrusion, his tall frame filling up the small space like an unwelcome shadow. His grey eyes roamed over every surface, every worn-out corner of her tiny living room, scrutinizing, assessing, judging.
Like he had any right.
His gaze finally settled on her, something unreadable flickering in those stormy depths. Then he spoke.
“This isn’t a place to live, Andrea. You should have—” He hesitated, his throat working around the words. “You should have something better. I—”
“Cut the crap and get to the point, Victor!”
Her voice cracked like a whip through the air, sharp, raw, vibrating with all the rage she barely held together.
Victor flinched. For the first time since stepping inside, his mask of control wavered, just a fraction. But it was gone just as quickly. He exhaled, steadying himself, then began his performance.
A thousand apologies. A million empty words.
It had all been a mistake, he said. He regretted everything. He never should have let her go. He needed her. He needed the baby. More than anything in the world.
He would make things right. He would fix it. He would fix everything.
Andrea sat there, staring at him, listening to this ridiculous, delusional fairytale he was spinning, and all she could feel was an overwhelming, crushing sadness.
Did he really think it was that simple? That words—just words—could undo the wreckage?
Did he think she was stupid?
That she could forget? That she would smile, fall into his arms, and pretend none of it had ever happened?
It was laughable.
And it was so damn sad.
“I was arrogant. And I was stupid.”
Victor’s voice was quiet, but his grey eyes burned as they locked onto hers.
Andrea didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She refused to give him anything.
“Marrying Evie was a necessity,” he continued, his words raw but filled with a strange, twisted justification. “A business deal—nothing more. My parents wanted proof that I was worthy to take over the empire.” His jaw clenched. “And I was a damn fool. A selfish, arrogant jerk.”
Andrea’s nails dug into her palms.
“I loved you,” he said, like the words were a curse.
Something inside her snapped.
She wanted to laugh. No, she wanted to scrape the words right out of his throat so he would never dare to say them again.
But she said nothing.
She just sat there, silent, waiting for this ordeal to be over.
Waiting for him to just leave.
“I loved you,” he repeated, his voice lower, almost desperate now. “But I never told you. I thought I didn’t have to. I was arrogant enough to believe that no matter what I did, you would never leave me. That you wouldn’t dare.” His eyes raked over her face, searching—hoping. “I knew how much you loved me.”
Andrea held her breath.
“I thought,” he went on, his voice tightening, “I could marry Evie. I’d give my family their heir—the one who would inherit my empire. And then, I’d be free. Free to be with you the way I always wanted.”
Her stomach twisted.
“I never thought you’d leave me,” he said.
She felt like she was listening to a broken record, one that was stuck on a sickening, off-tune loop.
“You were mine. My woman.”
That part? That part was true.
Victor Remington had always been possessive. He used to guard her like she was the launch code to a nuclear warhead—no one could so much as look at her without him snapping, his jealousy flaring into something dangerous.
Andrea exhaled sharply, tired. Done.
“What do you want, Victor?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“You. And the baby.” His voice was firm. Sure. Like he had already decided for her. “You as my bride. And our son as my heir.”
For a moment, she just stared at him.
Then, she almost laughed.
The audacity. The unbelievable audacity of this man to even suggest such a thing.
But before the bitter laughter could leave her lips—before she could unleash every ounce of rage left inside her—she saw it.
A shadow.
A presence at the open doorway.
Her heart stopped.
She had left the door open deliberately, thinking it would make it easier to get Victor out.
But instead, it had let someone in.
Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze lifted, and there, standing motionless in the doorway, was Asher.
No.
Not. Asher. andrew
His real name. His true self. The man she had trusted. The man who had promised her forever.
He stood frozen, his face like carved stone, eyes locked on her. And then on Victor.
And then back to her.
The betrayal in his expression was so cold, so raw, so gutting that it nearly knocked the air from her lungs.
He was looking at her like she was the worst kind of woman.
Like she was the one who had broken everything.
Like it wasn’t him who had walked away first.