Chapter 190

Chapter 15

For hours, Asher moved like a man lost in a storm. His eyes, wide and vacant, stared at nothing in particular, his hands tangled in his hair as he paced the room like a caged animal. At times, he would abruptly sink onto the couch, only to spring back up moments later, standing still as a statue, not moving, not speaking—just existing in a state of silent torment.

Andrea had never seen him like this before. It was terrifying.

She tried to reach him, to touch his arm, to offer comfort, but the moment her fingers so much as grazed him, he recoiled as if burned. He wouldn’t let her near him. Wouldn’t look at her. And each time she moved closer, he would walk away, putting distance between them as if she were the enemy.

The worst part wasn’t his silence. It was the way it stretched between them like a chasm, widening with each passing second. She pleaded with him, her voice trembling, asking him to tell her what Savannah Pierce had said, what had shattered him so completely. But no matter how many times she asked, he refused to answer.

At some point, exhaustion weighed her down, and she forced herself to stop trying. If he wouldn’t let her in, she had no choice but to step back. So she did.

She retreated to their bedroom, but sleep was impossible. She sat curled up on the bed, staring at the door, waiting for him to come in, waiting for anything. Her mind spun with countless terrible possibilities.

The night before, she had been wrapped in his arms, believing nothing could come between them. But the dawn had shattered that illusion.

A cold dread crept into her chest, sinking its claws deep. She wanted to believe him. He had promised he wouldn’t leave. He had promised to choose her. But the storm had arrived, and she could feel it now—building, gathering force and she didn’t know where it was going to take her.

Five minutes later, the silence in the house was broken by the sound of movement—footsteps, the rustling of fabric, the faint jingle of keys. Andrea sat frozen for a moment before she forced herself up, her heart pounding. She stepped out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit hallway, her breath hitching at the sight before her.

Asher was putting on his jacket.

She stared at him, at the rigid set of his shoulders, at the way his fingers fumbled slightly as he zipped it up. He was leaving.

“Asher?” Her voice was small, hesitant.

He didn’t look at her.

“I need to speak to that woman.” His tone was flat, devoid of warmth, like he was talking more to himself than to her.

Andrea felt a sharp pang in her chest. “Who?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“Savannah Pierce,” he said at last, his voice distant. “I need to speak to her.”

The way he said it—like it was some inevitable course of action, something he had to do, no matter what—made the dread in Andrea’s stomach tighten into something unbearable.

He didn’t say anything else. No reassurances. No explanations. No promise that he’d be back.

And then, just like that, he opened the door and stepped outside.

The cold morning air rushed in for a brief moment before the door swung shut behind him, leaving Andrea alone in the empty house, swallowed by a silence so vast and suffocating it felt like a living thing.

For a long time, she just stood there, staring at the door, waiting for it to open again, for him to come back and say it was all a mistake, that he hadn’t meant to leave like that. But the minutes stretched into an hour, then two.

Andrea had been through a lot in her life, had faced loneliness and loss before, but nothing compared to this—this agonizing, helpless waiting. Knowing something was terribly wrong but being utterly powerless to do anything about it was a kind of pain she had no words for.

It was in his hands now. His choice. His prerogative to come back to her.

She wanted to believe he would.

But with every passing hour, the weight of doubt grew heavier, pressing against her ribs, making it harder to breathe. His promise from last night—whispered in the dark, spoken in a voice raw with passion—felt more and more like a fragile thread.

Because, in the harsh light of morning, she realized the awful truth: If not for those words, there was nothing binding Asher to her at all.

The hours bled together in a slow, torturous rhythm, stretching endlessly as Andrea sat in the same spot, unmoving.

Morning had turned into noon, then noon into evening, and now even the last traces of sunlight had long since vanished, swallowed by the vast, indifferent darkness of the night. The sky outside was pitch black, except for the dim glow of the streetlamp just outside the window, casting a sickly yellow light into the room.

She hadn’t moved.

She hadn’t eaten.

She hadn’t slept.

She only waited.

Her body ached from staying in the same curled-up position on the sofa, but she didn’t care. Every time she heard footsteps outside, her breath hitched, her heart leaping into her throat. But each time, the person passed by, their silhouette vanishing into the night, leaving her with nothing but a gaping emptiness inside her chest.

He wasn’t coming home.

That thought settled over her like a cold, suffocating weight.

Somewhere in the depths of her exhaustion, her body betrayed her, dragging her into a restless, dreamless sleep. She didn’t know how long she had been out, but when she woke up, the room was still wrapped in that same eerie silence. The air was stale, unmoving. She sat up with a start, her pulse slamming against her ribs.

The first thing she noticed was that the lights were still off.

The second thing—far worse—was that the house was still empty.

He hadn’t come back.

Andrea’s throat tightened as she turned her gaze toward the clock on the wall, her stomach plummeting when she saw the time.

Midnight.

Twelve whole hours.

Twelve hours since he had walked out that door without a word.

A thick, crushing panic settled deep inside her, clawing its way up her chest. She had tried so hard to stay calm, to believe that he would come back. But now, in the dead silence of the house, that fragile hope shattered into a thousand pieces.

Something is wrong.

The thought took root in her mind, growing like a disease.

Logic couldn’t soothe her anymore. Rationality didn’t matter. Nothing made sense except for the one single thought that now screamed inside her head.

She needed to find him.

With shaking hands, she pushed herself up from the sofa, nearly stumbling as her legs protested the sudden movement. The room spun, her body weak from hours without food or water, but she forced herself to move.

She rushed to the bedroom, yanking open the closet, barely registering what she was grabbing as she threw on a jacket over the thin clothes she had worn all day. Her fingers fumbled to shove her feet into her shoes.

Her heart was hammering against her ribs.

She didn’t know where she was going.

She didn’t even know where to start looking.

But one thing was certain—she couldn’t stay here any longer, waiting

The night was eerily silent as Andrea stepped out into the cold, locking the door behind her. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and old asphalt, the kind of scent that lingered after a long day of heat, now cooled by the midnight air. Her breath came in soft, uneven exhales, visible in the dim glow of the streetlamps that flickered every few feet along the deserted road.

She had no plan.

No direction.

Only the relentless pull of fear tightening around her chest, dragging her forward.

The streets stretched ahead of her, empty and lifeless, the occasional hum of a distant car the only sign that the world had not completely come to a stop. Each step she took in her thin slippers sent sharp, dull aches through her swollen feet, but she barely noticed.

She must have looked insane, wandering through the quiet town in the dead of night, wrapped in an oversized coat over her maternity dress, arms cradling her belly protectively. But the desperation in her veins didn’t care about logic.

Where are you, Asher?

The words repeated in her mind, over and over, like a ghost whispering in her ear.

And before she even realized it, her feet had carried her to the one place that made sense.

The Bluebird Inn.

A cozy, family-run hotel tucked away in the quieter part of Montera Springs. It was the only inn in town, with its rustic wooden porch, six rooms, and a small café that served homemade pies. Andrea had passed by it before, had even stopped once to buy a coffee from the little shop attached to it.

Savannah Pierce wasn’t from here. If she was still in town, this was the only place she could be staying.

Andrea climbed the creaky wooden steps, gripping the handrail for balance as another sharp ache pulsed through her feet. The inn was dark, its old-fashioned lanterns casting faint, golden glows over the porch, but the main entrance was locked for the night.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

She hesitated for only a second before lifting her hand and knocking on the heavy wooden door.

No answer.

The silence pressed against her skin, thick and suffocating.

She knocked again, harder this time. Still, nothing.

Her heartbeat grew erratic, her breathing unsteady as she reached for the doorbell and pressed it. The chime rang out into the quiet, echoing eerily through the still night.

Andrea swallowed.

The emptiness around her felt endless, stretching into a suffocating void.

And then—

A rustle.

The voice from upstairs was groggy, drowsy, laced with the annoyance of being woken at such an ungodly hour.

"Coming."

Andrea barely registered the words before the door creaked open, revealing a middle-aged woman in a faded gray nightgown, her hair tangled from sleep. She squinted at Andrea through the dim porch light, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

"Sorry, can I help you?" she asked, rubbing at her eyes. "The rooms are full, though—because of the meteor thingy, I must warn you."

Andrea wasn’t here for small talk.

"I'm here to see Savannah Pierce," she announced, her voice steady, though her pulse was anything but.

The woman blinked, her drowsiness vanishing in an instant. Her gaze flickered down Andrea’s body—taking in the disheveled coat hastily thrown over her nightdress, the wildness of her unkempt hair, and most of all, the unmistakable swell of her pregnant belly.

Andrea saw it. That brief flicker of recognition.

Savannah Pierce was here.

The real question was—was Asher?

The woman hesitated, shifting on her feet. " what’s you name again, I will call her room and ask her if she would see you. Wait here a moment," she said before disappearing into a side room, shutting the door behind her.

Andrea sat down, gripping the armrest of the chair, straining to hear, but the walls were thick, and whatever was being said behind that door remained locked away from her.

The silence stretched, and with every passing second, her skin felt tighter, her heart hammering against her ribs. She clenched her fists, trying to steady the tremble in her fingers.

When the woman finally reappeared, her expression was unreadable.

"Room 201," she said, her voice softer now. "She’s expecting you.But be quick. She wasn’t happy about it."

Andrea barely nodded before rising to her feet.

The stairs loomed before her like a cruel test, the wooden steps stretching into shadows. It had been months since she’d climbed this many, and now, with the extra weight of her child pressing down on her spine, every step felt like she was dragging herself through thick, suffocating air.

Her breath grew shallow, sweat beading at the nape of her neck as she gripped the railing, pulling herself up. The muscles in her legs burned. Her swollen feet screamed in protest.

By the time she reached the top, she was breathless, lightheaded, and trembling from exhaustion.

But none of that mattered.

Because just a few feet ahead of her—standing behind an old wooden door marked 201—was the woman who had turned her world upside down.

The door to Room 201 was already open when Andrea reached the top of the stairs. A slow dread coiled in her stomach at the sight—like she was expected, like she was welcomed, though nothing about this felt like an invitation.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of smoke.

Savannah Pierce sat on the small sofa beside the bed, one leg draped elegantly over the other, a cigarette balanced between her manicured fingers. The dim glow from the bedside lamp bathed her in a golden hue, making the silky black nightgown she wore gleam against her flawless skin. The sheer slip barely concealed the lithe curves of her zero-figure body, a sharp contrast to Andrea’s own form, weighed down by months of pregnancy.

She didn’t rise when Andrea stepped in. Didn’t look startled. Didn’t even blink. She only took a long, slow drag of her cigarette and exhaled, watching Andrea through the haze of smoke, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

"I’m sorry if I’m not properly dressed for the meeting," Savannah drawled lazily, her voice thick with amusement. "But I hope you realize—it’s the middle of the night. So tell me—how may I help you?"

Andrea barely registered the mocking lilt in her tone. She wasn’t here to trade pleasantries. She wasn’t here to engage in whatever game this woman wanted to play.

"Where’s Asher?" she demanded.

For the first time, Savannah’s brows furrowed. A flicker of confusion crossed her face, fleeting but there.

"Asher who?"

Andrea’s stomach dropped.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. A sharp, raw kind of anger surged through her—mockery. This woman was mocking her.

"Asher," she spat, taking a step closer, "the man you were talking to this morning. In my porch."

Savannah tilted her head, still feigning ignorance, her lips parting slightly like she was truly struggling to recall.

And then, as if something clicked—she laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. A full, shrill, breathless laugh that pierced the room like shattered glass.

She laughed and laughed, her shoulders shaking, the sound bouncing off the walls, suffocating in its cruelty.

Andrea stood frozen, her blood turning ice-cold.

"Oh my God," Savannah gasped, wiping at the corner of her eye as if Andrea had just told her the funniest joke in the world. "That took me a second—I almost didn’t recognize you again."

Andrea’s breath hitched.

Savannah leaned forward then, tapping the ash of her cigarette into a crystal tray, her blue eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

"And if by Asher, you mean—" she paused for effect, "—Andrew Curt, the multi-billion-dollar sports car mogul I saw this morning, then I’m afraid you’re too late."

Andrea’s breath stopped.

"He left hours ago."

Savannah’s lips twisted into something cruel.

"Back to New York. With his mother and his fiancée."