Chapter 22
Sam stood frozen. Watching. Waiting. Expecting something. A reaction. A word. A storm.
He got none.
Andrew’s expression didn’t shift. Not a flicker. He read the paragraph once. Then again. Then carefully folded the paper and set it down beside his coffee cup.
Without lifting his gaze, he said simply, “That’ll be all, Sam.”
Sam hesitated. "Sir… is there anything—?"
Andrew looked up, finally, his face unreadable. Smooth. Polished. Impeccably calm.
“Yes,” he said. “Send in the team from Finance and Legal. I’ll see them now.”
Sam gave a half nod and turned toward the door.
“Sam,” Andrew added, just as he reached the threshold.
The assistant stopped. Turned back.
“Mark the day of the wedding,” Andrew said evenly. “Send flowers. And my congratulations. To the couple.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam replied quietly. But his eyes lingered for a second longer, full of unspoken thoughts.
Andrew didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.
He was already back to work.
The clock on the wall struck nine. Outside the towering glass walls of his office, the city glittered like a mirage, distant and quiet under a blanket of stars. The office building, some twenty floors above the bustling streets, had grown still. The corridors silent, the overhead lights dimmed. Most of the employees had left hours ago. All except two.
Andrew Curt sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, eyes locked on the glowing screen in front of him. Numbers and projections danced in front of his eyes, the latest fiscal report demanding his full attention. Or so he told himself.
“Sam, you can go,” he said without glancing up, voice calm and smooth. “Just finishing up the last fiscal quarter.”
Sam hesitated. “No, I’ll stay.”
Andrew finally looked at him. The young assistant stood at the doorway, uncertain, his eyes searching Andrew’s face like he might find something there—fatigue, grief, distraction. Something human. But there was nothing. Just the same unreadable expression, the same precise tone.
“Suit yourself,” Andrew muttered, turning back to his screen.
The silence resumed. The occasional clack of keys, the distant hum of city life far below.
It was nearly midnight—eleven forty-five—when Sam returned again, this time more cautious, a flicker of tension in his eyes. “There’s a call for you,” he said quietly. “A man named Logan Chaou.”
Andrew’s spine straightened subtly. He set the tablet aside, picked up the receiver with the same cool precision. Logan Chaou. A name from a different chapter—one Andrew had all but closed. He had hired the man months ago, before the surgery, as a private security detail. To watch over Andrea Mercer. Discreetly. Silently. Just in case.
He’d almost forgotten about Logan. Or perhaps he had tried to.
Andrew brought the phone to his ear. “Yes. Logan.”
“Mr. Curt.” The voice on the other end was low, urgent. “Apologies for the late hour. I called to inform you—Ms. Mercer is in labour.”
For a moment, everything in Andrew’s world… paused. The room felt colder. The lights dimmer. The silence louder. His hand tightened just slightly around the receiver.
Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair. Composed. Controlled.
“I see,” he said.
There was a time, not long ago, when those words would’ve sent him spiraling out the door, rushing to her side without thinking. When the very idea of Andrea being in pain would have brought him to his knees. But not now.
Now, she belonged to someone else.
Now, it wasn’t his business.
“Thank you for the update,” he continued, his voice level and emotionless. “Please keep me informed of her condition. I’ll instruct my secretary to send flowers and a congratulatory message to the… new parents.”
He could hear Logan hesitate. Maybe waiting. Maybe hoping. Andrew gave him nothing.
“And Logan…” he said finally.
“Yes, sir?”
“I believe this assignment is complete. Effective immediately. I’ll speak to your supervisor in the morning and arrange for your reassignment.”
There was silence on the line. A breath. A shift.
“…Understood, sir. But—”
Andrew’s tone sharpened, just enough to slice. “Yes?”
The man on the other end sounded almost hesitant now. “She didn’t look well, sir. That’s why I called. She was… in a lot of pain. I just thought you should know.”
Andrew stopped breathing for a second.
He took a deep, slow breath through his nose, as if the very act of breathing might burn. The image had already begun to take shape—Andrea, in pain, alone, her hands gripping cold white sheets, her lips bitten bloody in silence. He didn’t want to think about it. He wasn’t supposed to think about it.
It wasn’t his business anymore.
“She’s not alone,” he said curtly, gripping the receiver tighter. “Victor Remington—her fiancé—must be there. He’ll take care of it. I’m sure.”
But Logan’s voice on the other end was quiet. Careful.
“I’m sure as well, sir. Except… he isn’t here.”
The air around Andrew stilled.
“What do you mean he isn’t there?”
“He dropped her off at the hospital, then left. I was told he had a flight to catch.”
A sudden, invisible noose began to pull tight around Andrew’s chest. He stood from his chair slowly, his free hand bracing the desk like he needed something to hold him upright.
“Are you saying… she’s there alone?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous.
“Yes, sir. That’s why I called.”
“What about her neighbors? Mr. Dylan and his wife? Avery? Anyone from the Rockers?”
“No, sir. She moved to New York yesterday. She’s not at Montera Springs anymore. She’s in New Jose Hospital. And to answer your question… there’s no one with her. No family. No friends. No one.”
Andrew didn’t speak.
His jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked at his temple. His grip on the phone was white-knuckled, but his voice, when it finally came, was a whisper. Dead calm.
“Understood.”
He hung up the phone.
Across the room, Sam exhaled in relief. His boss had finally stood up from his desk and looked like he was ready to leave. Thank God. Sam was exhausted. Bone-deep tired. He picked up his coat with a sleepy smile.
“Goodnight, Mr. Curt. Ready to head home?”
Andrew turned toward him slowly, his eyes unreadable.
“I’m leaving, yes,” he said. Then, with cold, deliberate clarity: “But I’m not going home.”
Sam blinked. “Sir?”
“You’re coming with me,” Andrew continued, already pulling on his coat. “We’re going to New Jose Hospital.”