Chapter 21
“Get the hell out.” Andrea’s voice cracked like a whip, venom lacing every syllable as she glared at him. Her eyes, usually so warm and full of fire, now burned with betrayal. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
The air between them was thick with tension, the kind that hummed with unsaid words and bleeding wounds. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, like she was holding herself together by sheer will. Andrew stood at the threshold, the flickering hallway light casting shadows on his face, making the pain in his eyes all the more visible.
The nerve.
As if he hadn’t hurt her enough already—after everything—he was here now, what? Playing the savior? Offering to take her in like some charity case?
“I’m sorry,” she said bitterly, voice sharp and cold. “I’m not that desperate yet.”
But her words cut both ways. Andrew flinched as though she’d slapped him. His jaw clenched, his voice low and trembling with restrained fury as he shot back, “But you looked desperate enough to listen to Victor Remington’s marriage proposal.” He stepped closer, his presence suddenly heavier. “The bastard who left you—abandoned you—when you were pregnant with his child.”
His words were a blade, and he knew it. But damn it, he couldn’t stay silent while she threw him aside like this. He watched her, watched the way she froze, like she’d been struck.
She didn’t shout back. Instead, her shoulders slumped just slightly, and for the first time since he walked in, she looked fragile. Breakable.
“Yes,” she whispered, voice quivering, eyes glistening. “That’s right.”
She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat nearly choking her as she met his gaze, tears threatening to spill but refusing to fall.
“I am desperate… for Victor Remington,” she said, each word a painful truth torn from her chest. “Because he’s the father of my child. And if—if we’re trying to work things out between us, you have no right to interfere.”
Silence followed.
Heavy. Final.
The end.
That’s what it felt like.
Andrew felt something inside him unravel. His fists unclenched slowly at his sides.
And what right did he even have to be here?
What gave him the nerve to stand in her doorway, looking at her like that—like she was still his to care for, to claim—when she had made it painfully clear: she didn’t want him anymore. Not like that. Not when her world was tilting toward someone else.
She was thinking of marrying another man.
Victor Remington.
The name tasted like ash in Andrew’s mouth.
No matter how much of a selfish bastard Victor had been—how recklessly he’d thrown Andrea away when she needed him most—he was still the father of her child. And now, maybe, just maybe… he was the man she still loved.
Andrew’s gaze settled on her, softer now. Wounded. He studied her like he was seeing her for the first time—not just the sharp edges and anger, but the hurt beneath. The longing. The ache for something that maybe only Victor could give her: a family. A name. A life that looked like it had a future.
She’d once told Andrew that she had loved Victor. And now… maybe she still did.
Maybe this was her second chance. Maybe she had to take it.
And who the hell was he to stop her?
The storm inside him quieted. Not gone, but quieter. The words he’d wanted to throw—Why him? Why not me?—they stayed locked in his throat. He wanted to scream that he could give her so much more. More love. More warmth. A future without pain. But none of it came out.
Instead, he just looked at her—really looked—and after a pause, his eyes dropped to the floor. His heart cracked quietly inside his chest, and he nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. “And I want to thank you… for everything you did for me.”
Her expression faltered. She stepped forward, already shaking her head. “Ashe—Andrew, no. Please, don’t—”
“Let me speak,” he said gently, almost pleading. “Just this once.”
Andrea stilled.
“I’m really grateful,” he continued, voice low, raw. “I’m not sure I would’ve made it without you. So… thank you. For giving me shelter when I had nothing. For being there when no one else was.”
He took a slow, careful step forward. Her breath caught as he leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek in a soft, lingering kiss that carried more emotion than words ever could. Grief. Gratitude. Goodbye.
“I guess this is it, then,” he murmured, pulling back. “If you ever need anything… anything at all… you know where to find me.”
He gently reached for her hand, his fingers brushing hers in a silent, final goodbye. A small white card pressed into her palm. Then he stepped back.
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
She didn’t move. Didn’t call after him. Just watched, heart heavy and eyes dry, as he climbed into the black limo waiting at the curb. The bodyguards shuffled in beside him. The doors shut. Engines rumbled. And then the entire caravan began to roll forward, swallowing him into the night like he had never been there.
It’s done.
He was gone.
“Goodbye, Asher,” Andrea whispered, long after the taillights had disappeared.
Andrew Curt would go on to live a good life. A full life. Probably a successful one too, knowing him. But Asher—the man she had fed in the winter, the one who made her laugh when she didn’t know she still could, the man she’d almost let herself love…
Asher was gone. And she was going to miss him.
She stood there for a long moment, breathing slowly, forcing the weight in her chest to settle. Then finally, she looked down at her hand.
The business card was still there.
Blank on one side. His name on the other.
She knelt down quietly, laid it on the welcome mat, and without another word… closed the door.
He went back to his life.
And Andrea… went to dinner with Victor Remington.
Even with all the hesitation in her eyes, she still went.
Time didn’t stop for heartbreak. It never did. Life had a cruel way of moving forward, even when people felt stuck. Andrew knew that better than most. So, he did what he always did when the world knocked him down—he got back up, he focused, and he rebuilt.
When Andrew Curt truly set his mind on something, he achieved it. Always. And this time, he set his mind on one thing: moving on.
He drowned himself in work, meetings, charts, reports—anything to stop his mind from drifting back to a woman standing in a doorway with tears in her eyes. A woman who had chosen another man. That chapter was closed. Asher was gone. And Andrew… Andrew was back.
The surgery was scheduled a week later. A delicate procedure to clear the blood clots that had once threatened his life. It wasn’t just physical—it was symbolic. He was cutting out the past. Wiping the slate clean.
On a quiet Sunday morning, the operation was performed.
Six hours under anesthesia, two leading surgeons, and a team of specialists later—Andrew came out of it alive. Stronger. Clear.
Successful.
There were no complications, no lingering shadows. Two weeks later, he was discharged with a clean bill of health. Fit to return to his life. His routine. His throne.
Life is good, he told himself. Life is fine.
And if he said it enough, maybe it would be true.
By February 5th, he was back at work.
His first day in the office.
His mother had been ecstatic, buzzing around the house like a bird too long caged. The staff at the firm were equally electrified. The building was alive with whispers and smiles as he walked in, sharp as ever in a tailored navy suit, sunglasses in place, and a calm confidence that had always commanded attention.
The moment he stepped into the top-floor lobby, it was as if he had never been gone.
His office was just as he’d left it. Crisp. Immaculate. Waiting.
And there it was—on his desk—a freshly brewed cup of coffee, steam curling in the air. The same roast, same mug, same time. As if time had folded in on itself and brought him home.
He smiled. A small, private one.
“Sam,” he called lightly to his assistant, “get me The New York Times, please.”
It was a ritual. His little anchor. A cup of coffee, the rustle of the morning paper, and a few quiet minutes before the day claimed him.
Sam grinned, clearly overjoyed to have him back. “Sure thing, sir. Welcome back.”
And just like that, the world shifted back into place.
The king had returned to his castle.
An hour had passed since Andrew had returned to his desk, and still—no newspaper.
He didn’t usually notice these things. Not small delays. But today, the absence felt deliberate.
He’d already begun work, reviewing a proposal for a factory expansion in China. His eyes moved over the figures, but something was off. His assistant, Sam, was moving around the office like a nervous cat—hovering near the door, avoiding eye contact, shifting papers that didn’t need shifting. It was subtle, but Andrew noticed everything.
“Sam,” he said finally, voice sharp and low, the way it got when he was two seconds from snapping, “get me the head of Finance in here. And someone from Legal. Now.”
He paused, then added with clipped precision, “And where’s the damned newspaper?”
There was a slight crackle across the intercom as Sam hesitated. He sounded like he’d just sucked in a deep breath.
“Sir—”
“Don’t explain. Get it. You have five minutes.”
Andrew didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The temperature in the room dropped with those five words alone.
Exactly five minutes later, Sam walked in, pale-faced and tight-lipped, holding out The New York Times like it was a live grenade. Behind him, the heads of Finance and Legal waited just outside the door, tense and expectant.
Sam cleared his throat, voice strained. “Mrs. Curt… asked me not to give this to you today.”
Andrew didn’t even look up. “Did she.”
Not a question. Just a statement of fact. One more thing his mother tried to control.
With a practiced flick, he opened the paper, flipping through the pages with the brisk efficiency of a man who didn’t need words spelled out for him.
Then—he stopped.
There it was. Page five. Social Announcements.
"Andrea Mercer to wed Elias Remington, CFO and heir of Remington Industries. Ceremony to be held one month from today."