Chapter 195

Chapter 20

And he wanted a life with Andrea—and their baby. He wasn’t going to leave without it.

The two limousines came to a quiet stop just outside the small yellow house, their sleek black surfaces gleaming under the afternoon sun. The sudden arrival of luxury vehicles in the quiet street was enough to pull neighbors from porches and windows, curiosity pulling them closer like a magnet. The sight that followed was even more startling.

A small team of men in tailored black suits stepped out first, followed by a man who looked like he had no business being in Montera Springs. Dressed in a crisp royal blue three-piece suit, polished shoes, and dark sunglasses that hid his expression, Andrew Curt looked every inch the man who had built empires, not someone who once helped the neighbors with their taxes over iced tea.

Mr. Dylan and his wife stood frozen near the sidewalk, wide-eyed in disbelief. They didn’t need to ask—it was him.

Andrew’s assistant stepped forward, offering quiet gratitude to the couple for looking after Andrea while he’d been gone. But Andrew barely acknowledged any of it. He had one focus, one purpose.

Andrea.

Without waiting, he walked toward the house, pushing open the low gate that creaked just the same as it used to. The front porch hadn’t changed. Neither had the little planter boxes by the steps. His hand lifted, ready to knock—already rehearsing how he’d tell her everything—but he didn’t need to.

The door was open. Wide open.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting on the couch, not far from the entrance. There was a man beside her, seated a little too close, holding her hand. Andrew stopped short at the threshold.

"You and the baby,” the man was saying softly, “I want you both. Marry me, Andrea. Let me take care of our son. Let him be my heir.”

Andrew’s world quieted.

The man didn’t notice him. But Andrea did. Her eyes lifted. Their gazes met.

She looked at him—for a moment that felt like an eternity. Her face unreadable. Remote. And then, she looked away. Back at the man sitting beside her.

Andrew didn’t move. He stood there, frozen in place, fists buried deep in his coat pockets, tension humming through his arms like a live wire. He didn’t know what he had expected—tears, maybe. A smile. Anger, even. But not this calm, collected silence.

So this was Victor Remington.

The man who had abandoned her when she was pregnant. The man who threatened her job, her security, and still had the audacity to sit beside her now, offering some half-hearted proposal like it erased everything he’d done.

But what truly got under Andrew’s skin—what made the anger knot deep in his gut—was that she was sitting there. Listening. She hadn’t pulled her hand away. Hadn’t told the man to leave.

How could she even consider something like this?

His jaw tightened. He felt the weight of everything he’d come back for settle heavy on his shoulders.

And still, he said nothing.

“Victor,” Andrea said quietly, her voice flat and expression unreadable. “I think you should go now.”

He blinked, still kneeling beside her. “But you haven’t answered me yet,” he insisted, his tone softening. “Andrea, we could have a good life. I can give you stability. Fidelity. Protection. Anything you want—just say it. But I want to be part of this child’s life.”

She didn’t look at him, just closed her eyes briefly. “Now’s not a good time. Please, Victor. I need… time.”

She wasn’t saying no.

Andrew stood motionless by the doorway, a statue of control, though inside, he was burning. That she hadn’t said no was enough to unhinge him. Time—for what? To decide whether or not to tie herself to the man who had once walked away from her? Who’d threatened her job and now came crawling back offering promises like they meant something?

Andrew's fists curled inside his pockets, and he gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

Victor rose slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “I’ll wait for your answer,” he said gently, then added, “But Andrea—please, think of our baby. Before you make any decision.”

And then, as he turned to leave, he noticed Andrew. Towering at the door, dressed like the empire he ruled, unreadable behind his sunglasses, his presence loud in its silence.

Victor frowned. “Who is this?”

Andrea’s reply came sharp, without pause. “None of your business.”

Victor looked stung, visibly startled by the sudden bite in her voice. But he said nothing. Andrea turned away from both of them, lips pressed in a line. Her hands itched with restraint. She could only tolerate so much of Victor in one sitting, and he had long exceeded his welcome.

The only reason she hadn’t already thrown him out was because of Andrew.

She wanted Andrew to see that she wasn’t waiting for him. That she didn’t need him to swoop in like some rich savior and take over her life. That she wasn’t some abandoned woman desperate for his attention. She wanted him to know that she had other options. Even if the idea of going to dinner with Victor made her stomach turn.

Victor, trying one last time, took her hands again. “Just think about it. A home. A name for the baby. Security. You wouldn’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Andrea looked past him—at the man still standing at her door like he owned it.

Andrew Curt. Cold. Composed. Distant.

He had left her when she needed him. And now he was back, with his army of bodyguards and his polished shoes, expecting her to fall apart in his arms just because he decided to show up. Her anger flared.

She looked Victor in the eye. “Okay, I will think about it” she said.

Victor blinked. “Dinner? Tonight?”

She nodded. “Pick me up at eight.”

Andrew didn’t flinch, but his jaw flexed once. His lips thinned, the cold steel in his eyes now bordering on volcanic heat.

Victor glanced back at him again, clearly unsure of what was unfolding. His eyes darted from Andrea to Andrew to the silent wall of security behind him and the parked limousines gleaming like beasts at the curb. Confusion and unease marred his face as he turned away, finally stepping out of the house. He looked back one last time, triple-checking Andrew’s posture, his height, his stare—sharp enough to gut a man—before hurrying to his car.

The rev of Victor’s sports car echoed as he pulled away, leaving dust and silence in his wake.

And Andrea was still staring ahead, fists clenched at her sides.

Andrew stepped in at last, slow and calculated, the weight of his presence heavy in the room.

“So this,” he said, voice like velvet over steel, “is what I came back to.”

Andrew was glaring at her.

That glare—that infuriating, arrogant glare—was the only reason she said yes to dinner with Victor. Because Andrew had no right to look at her like that. No right to show up out of nowhere and act like he still had some claim on her life.

“You’re not going to dinner with that bastard,” he growled.

And suddenly, he was right in front of her—too close. So close she could barely breathe.

She inhaled sharply, and it was like everything she remembered and everything she had lost came rushing back at once. He didn’t even smell the same. It wasn’t that familiar, soft, everyday scent she associated with Asher’s hoodies and coffee mugs and quiet evenings. No, he smelled expensive now. Clean-cut. Like polished wood and sharp cologne. The air around him was different, charged, precise, intimidating.

He wasn’t Asher anymore.

This man was Andrew Curt.

His suit was perfection—deep blue, tailored so sharply it hugged every line of his lean, toned body. A gold watch gleamed at his wrist, not just expensive but clearly rare, the kind of thing people wrote articles about. His leather shoes reflected the porch lights like a mirror. He looked like he belonged to some other world entirely. A world that had no place for a woman like her.

And yet, here he was. Standing in her tiny home. Looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

She wanted to be happy for him—really, she did. He had found himself. Reclaimed his life. Gotten back the identity that had been taken from him. But as she stood there watching him, her chest cracked with the quiet, suffocating grief of losing the man she had loved.

Because Asher… Asher was gone. Truly gone.

And nothing had prepared her for that loss.

“None of your business,” she said tightly, voice sharp with the effort not to break. She moved to shut the door, but he caught it gently, holding it open.

“Andrea…” His voice was softer now. The fire of his anger had cooled into something else—concern. “How have you been? Have you been eating? Sleeping? You look tired.”

That was all it took. Just those few words. Just that familiar tenderness in a stranger’s voice.

The tears were dangerously close now, trembling on the edge of her lashes. But she wouldn’t let them fall. Not in front of him. Not now. He didn’t get to see that part of her anymore.

“How is the baby?” he asked next, and it shattered her a little more. The way he said baby—like it mattered to him. Like it mattered more than anything else in the world.

She turned her face away.

“Just say whatever it is you came here to say,” she snapped, the words more fragile than fierce, “and then leave me alone.”

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, with the same maddening calm that always accompanied his most outrageous declarations, he looked her dead in the eye and said, “I’m here to take you home with me. To New York.”