Chapter 194

Chapter 19

It was the 31st of January.

Andrew knew because he had nothing else to do but stare at the stupid calendar pinned to the bland hospital wall—counting the days like a prisoner scratching tally marks into stone.

That was all he could do here. Wait. Count. Rot.

A knock came at the door, soft and polite. And it made him want to put his fist through the nearest wall.

He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth until the muscles in his face twitched. He was in no mood for visitors. No mood for more fake smiles and hollow words. No mood to be handled.

The doctors had failed him. Utterly, embarrassingly failed him.

Why did he lose his memory after the accident?
No one knew.

Why had he gone through excruciating, bone-deep pain when that single, broken fragment of memory had returned?
No one knew.

Why did he feel like his chest was an empty cavity every time he looked in the mirror, searching for a self he couldn't recognize?
Still—no one had a damn clue.

“We’re running more tests.”
“We’re doing all we can.”

Bullshit.

All they’d done so far was poke and prod him, like a lab rat in a pristine cage. And they had the audacity to keep him here, locked in this whitewashed hellhole, even when he was clearly healed.

He was fine. Physically. Functionally. On paper.
And yet—he wasn’t allowed to leave.

He slammed the back of his head lightly against the headrest, trying to exhale the fire building in his chest, but it was no use.

Because what else didn’t they know?
That he was done being patient? That he didn’t need any more meaningless scans, any more pitying looks or cautious optimism from people who had no idea what the hell they were doing?

And then, as if fate really wanted to toy with him today, there was her.

His mother.

Hovering. Meddling. Micromanaging.

Trying to fix him like he was still twelve and had scraped his knee.

She always acted like his life was hers to arrange, to orchestrate—like she had the right to tell him how he should feel, how he shouldn’t react, how to behave and process and grieve, as if she was the keeper of his damn emotions.

He was done listening to her. He had nothing left to say to her.

And then there was Eloise.

Sweet, gentle, kind Eloise—who never raised her voice, who spoke like she was reading poetry from silk pages, who brought him books and flowers and carefully packaged hope.

But her kindness grated on him too.

It felt… performative. Like she was trying too hard.

Like she was trying to build a connection he should remember but didn’t.

And that made him feel like a failure. Like a fraud.

The door burst open without so much as a knock, and Andrew instinctively straightened, eyes narrowing into a glare.

Of course. The doctor.
Always the damn doctor.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

Andrew’s eyes flicked to the trailing group of white coats following behind—an entire entourage, like this was some kind of medical circus.

And then his mother.
Jocelyn Curt—striding in right behind them like she owned the building. Like she was here to supervise her little project.

Andrew’s jaw clenched. Wonderful.
This wasn’t going to be good. No one brought backup like this to deliver good news.

So, he sat back, arms folded across his chest, silently daring them to get it over with.

The lead doctor started speaking in that infuriatingly calm voice doctors reserved for catastrophes. “We’ve detected blood clots in your brain—particularly in the prefrontal cortex. These clots have likely been the cause of your memory loss, affecting areas responsible for working memory, personality, emotional regulation, decision-making—”

He didn’t even flinch.

Of course. Of course it was his brain.

He stared at the glowing image they hung up on the backlit board, where the doctor pointed at some meaningless swirls and dots on the MRI scan like it was a damn map to Atlantis.

Prefrontal cortex, they said. He could barely muster the energy to care.

He’d already begun to suspect something like this.
It made sense. The blackouts. The confusion. The strange flickers of memory that stabbed through him like glass shards.
And the pain.

Still—he felt… nothing.

No fear. No sorrow. Not even anger anymore.
Only a cold, grim acknowledgment.

Meanwhile, his mother had already launched into her role: General Jocelyn Curt, waging war on the medical world with clipped words and a perfectly ironed blouse.

“What do we need to do?” she demanded, like she was ordering lunch off a menu.

“Surgery,” came the reply. “It’s our best option. As soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Jocelyn said without missing a beat. “If it will help, we’ll do it. Schedule it immediately. If surgery would—”

Andrew stopped listening.

He had tuned them out entirely, the buzzing voices in the background now no more than static.

He didn’t care what they decided. Because he knew what he needed to do.When Jocelyn Curt returned the next morning, What she didn’t expect was to walk in and see him standing tall in front of the mirror, buttoning up his crisp coat like he was about to walk out for a board meeting.

“Andrew?” she called gently, surprised. But Andrew barely glanced her way.

He combed his hair back with practiced fingers, adjusting the collar of his shirt with deliberate precision, every movement calm, poised, unhurried. His reflection stared back at him with cool determination.

For the first time in weeks, he looked like himself. Not the broken patient lying in bed, not the confused amnesiac, but Andrew Curt—the man who had always known exactly who he was, even when the rest of the world tried to tell him otherwise.

“I’m going back to Montera Springs,” he said flatly, slipping on his silver watch—sleek, classic, handcrafted by a brand that cost more than some people’s homes.

Jocelyn didn’t argue.
She knew that tone in her son’s voice.
It wasn’t defiant or cruel—it was resolute.
Final.

He wasn’t asking. He was telling.

And though she might not have approved of his timing, though worry still knit her brow, she didn’t try to stop him. Jocelyn Curt, for all her composure and subtle maternal guilt-tripping, knew better than to wrestle with her son’s stubborn will when it had decided on something.

The surgery would wait.
Andrew had decided what mattered more.

But if facing his mother had been easy, the conversation with Eloise was anything but.

Elegant, graceful, and always effortlessly composed—Eloise had always seemed like the perfect match. She was the woman everyone expected him to marry. And for a while, Andrew had believed that too.

He sat across from her now in her glass-walled penthouse suite, the world sparkling behind her like a stage backdrop. And she sat still, quiet, even as he told her everything.

That he was going back. That this wasn’t temporary. That things between them—they—were over.

“I’ve changed,” he said softly, trying to choose his words carefully. “The man you were with before the accident—he doesn’t exist anymore. I’m not him. And the version I’ve become... we don’t fit anymore, Eloise.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the tissue on the glass table, dabbing the corners of her eyes before a single tear dared fall.

“You’re going back to her, aren’t you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Andrew looked away for a moment. Not in guilt—but in recognition of the truth that hung between them, heavy as glass ready to crack.

“Does it matter?” he asked, and the question wasn’t callous, just tired. Worn. Sad.

There had been a time when Eloise felt like the perfect future. But perfection, he’d realized, wasn’t the same thing as belonging.

“Shouldn’t it?” she replied, her voice catching slightly before she gathered herself. “I mattered to you. At least I thought I did. But I’m starting to realize I was just... convenient. Polished. Acceptable.”

“That’s not true,” he said, voice firm.

“No?” she said, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Then tell me the truth. Are you choosing her over me?”

He couldn’t answer that. Because deep down, he already had.

She rose from her seat, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve with grace even in heartbreak. “Good luck in Montera Springs,” she said with finality. “Goodbye, Andrew.”

And this time, she didn’t look back.

Andrew felt like a man lost in the choppy waters of the Atlantic—caught beneath crashing waves, struggling to surface, only to be dragged down again, over and over.
Drowning.
That’s what it had felt like.
Ever since he’d woken up in that sterile, suffocating hospital room with a past he didn’t recognize and a future he couldn’t grasp.

His mother had stopped speaking to him—offended, no doubt, that he dared defy the plan she had mapped out for him like a tight itinerary.
The doctors had practically begged him not to leave, citing liability, “urgent care,” risk, and so many other terms he had tuned out the second they tried to assert control over his life.

But none of that mattered now.

And Andrea… well, she was the one he was most afraid to face.
Because unlike everyone else, she had the power to truly hurt him.
She had already refused his calls, sent back every gift, turned away every effort he had made through his assistant. The Dylans had been polite, but firm—Andrea didn’t want to talk. Not to him, not to his people.
She was angry.
He understood that.

But what she didn’t understand—not yet—was that he was coming for her.
In person.
Today.

It wasn’t safe for him to drive, apparently. That was the only thing his mother had insisted on that he allowed—an entourage of security detail and a chauffeur. The security chief sat stiffly in the front passenger seat while three other bodyguards followed behind in another SUV, their presence discreet but constant.

He didn’t care about any of it.
Not the risk. Not the watchful eyes.
His mind was already a thousand miles ahead, inside that small house in Montera Springs.

It was a warm day, the sunlight catching on the windshield, and for the first time in weeks, something inside him unclenched when he saw the familiar yellow sign:
Welcome to Montera Springs.

God, he’d missed this town more than he expected. The quiet roads. The clean air. The sense of something real.

His heart thundered.

He knew exactly what he was going to do.

He was going to tell Andrea the truth—not just that he remembered, not just that he loved her, but that he needed her.
Not as a whim. Not as a fantasy.
As a requirement.

She was no longer negotiable in his life.
She was it.

And she wasn’t going to stay behind in this small town. No.
He wanted her in New York, with him. In his apartment, with every comfort she could ever ask for, every luxury within reach, every need met—hers and the baby’s.

Only then would he agree to have the surgery.
Only when she was safe, when he knew she and the baby were in his arms, where no one else could take them from him.

Because Andrew Curt was a lot of things—cold, arrogant, ruthless when needed.
But above all, he was certain.

He had built an empire with sheer determination and vision, and now—
Andrea and their child were going to be the greatest part of that legacy.

He would give them everything.

She would never want for anything again. Not love. Not security. Not protection.
Not him.