Chapter 198

Chapter 22

The contractions were still too far apart, but her dilation had progressed. The doctors told her so, as if offering hope. But they were just words—empty, floating in the air, powerless against the bone-deep, excruciating pain that gripped her every few minutes.

The dull cream curtains of the maternity ward were her only witness as she screamed, panted, and then lay still in the fragile silence between waves of pain. Her baby was coming. And Victor—Victor was gone, off chasing some investor, someone apparently more important than witnessing the birth of his child.

She knew she sounded bitter in her head. But she wasn’t—not really. She had expected nothing more from Victor Remington. If anything, this was predictable. He was always going to walk away the moment things got hard, or the moment something shinier came along. She had known that as surely as she knew the sun rose in the east.

So why had she agreed to marry him? Why tie herself to someone she knew would treat her like this?

She had asked herself that question a thousand times in the past few weeks. Was she a masochist, setting herself up for inevitable hurt and disappointment? Maybe. But the truth was more complicated.

She wanted her son to have a better beginning than she’d had—better than a childhood marred by bitter, divorced parents, grinding poverty, and a past that clung to her like a shadow. She wanted stability for him, even if she had to sacrifice her own comfort to get it.

And with Victor, at least this time, she wasn’t naive. She knew what she was getting into. He couldn’t fool her again. She felt nothing for him now—not love, not longing. And because she felt nothing, he had no power to hurt her anymore.

That was why, on that quiet evening, in a secluded booth of one of the only two restaurants in town, when Victor had asked her again—when he begged her to consider his marriage proposal, cloaking his words in flowery promises, heartfelt apologies, and dreams of a beautiful future—she had said yes.

Not because she believed him.

But because she didn’t have to.

Andrea raised her hand slightly, halting Victor mid-sentence. Her voice was calm, but unyielding.

“I’ll agree to the marriage,” she said. “But only on my conditions.”

Victor blinked, stunned. Then his face lit up with something dangerously close to relief. “You don’t know how much that means to me, Andrie—”

She cut him off again, firmer this time. “Listen to me, Victor. This won’t be a real marriage.”

The shift in his expression was immediate—confusion, then irritation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Andrea took a deep breath. She’d rehearsed these words a hundred times in her head, but now that they were spilling out, they still stung.

“It means we’ll be married in name only. You want a picture-perfect family—a house, two parents, a stable home for the baby. I want that too. But that’s all it will be, Victor. There will be nothing else between us. Not again.”

Victor’s face hardened, the offense plain in his eyes. “Is this still about Evie? Are you really going to keep punishing me for that? So you’ve just decided what—no sex, ever again?”

There it was. Victor’s ever-narrow focus, zeroing in on the physical, like that was the glue that held everything together.

“No,” Andrea said, shaking her head. “This isn’t about punishment. This is about boundaries. It’s about protecting what we’re building for our child. You and I… we’ve already proven what happens when we mix emotions and attraction. It gets messy, it gets painful. I won’t risk that again—not for me, and definitely not for the baby.”

He fell silent for a long moment, staring at her as if trying to reach into her resolve and shake it loose. His voice, when it came, was quieter—almost gentle.

“Is there really no way I can change your mind? This could be a new beginning for us, Andrie. A fresh start. We could be happy if—”

She didn’t let him finish. A slow shake of her head told him everything he needed to know.

“So you want us to live like roommates?” he asked, his voice rising with frustration. “We’ll be married, we’ll raise this child together, but I’m not allowed to even touch you? That’s what you're saying?”

Andrea stood, picking up her purse, ready to leave before the conversation spiraled into something uglier. But as she turned, Victor reached out and caught her wrist—not forcefully, just enough to make her stop.

“Andie, wait,” he pleaded, panic blooming in his voice. “Please. Just—listen.”

She paused, surprised to see something raw in his expression. Something real.

“Okay,” he said, exhaling shakily. “Okay. I’ll agree to it. No sex. No expectations. But I want this baby. I need this baby.”

His voice cracked, just slightly, and for the first time, she saw something unpolished and honest in him. Desperation, maybe. Or love—not for her, perhaps, but for the child they had made.

Andrea stared at him, her heart tugging in two directions. She hadn’t expected him to bend. She hadn’t expected him to care this much.

And maybe—just maybe—that tiny spark of sincerity was enough for her to sit back down.

Not because she was giving him another chance.

But because her baby deserved one.

A scream ripped from her throat as the next contraction slammed into her, more violent than anything before. This one wasn’t like the others—there was no rhythm to it, no rise and fall. Just a searing, continuous pain that stole the air from her lungs and bent her forward, trembling.

She gasped, fumbling for the call button with slick fingers, her whole body shaking. “Nurse—” she croaked, but it came out hoarse and broken.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just the pain. It was the heat. The tearing pressure. The awful, gut-deep feeling that her body was screaming in panic.

Then she felt it—warm, wet.

She looked down.

The pale blue hospital gown was soaked in deep crimson, and the sheets beneath her were quickly being swallowed by a spreading pool of blood.

For a second, time froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening around the bed rail as her heart began to race.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t right.

Fear surged through her like wildfire.

Her baby.

Something was happening to her baby.

“Nurse!” she screamed this time, louder, frantic, her voice laced with pure terror. “Please! I’m bleeding! I’m—something’s wrong!”

Alarms rang somewhere in the distance. Footsteps. The blur of a white coat. Gloved hands reaching for her. Questions she couldn’t understand.

“Hello, we’re looking for Andrea Mercer, please,” the taller of the two men said, his voice cool, authoritative.

The nurse at the hospital reception desk looked up from her computer, her fingers hesitating mid-click. She found herself blinking at the sight of the two strangers before her. One of them was staggeringly handsome—tall, with sharp cheekbones, a sculpted jawline, and striking blue eyes that could freeze fire. He wore clothes that screamed wealth—impeccable tailoring, subtle but obvious designer labels, and the kind of air that made people either shrink or stand taller. Beside him stood a shorter man, broader and more rugged—like the trunk of an ancient oak, solid and silent. His eyes, though less piercing, held the kind of calm danger that made people take him seriously.

The nurse quickly glanced at her screen, then back at them. She straightened her spine. “I’m sorry, but you can’t see her right now.”

The blue-eyed man narrowed his gaze, not bothering to mask the displeasure crossing his face. “Why not?”

There was no mistaking the weight of his presence now. It wasn’t just that he was handsome—he was terrifying. The kind of man who had never heard the word no without punishing it. The nurse suddenly felt the weight of her own heartbeat, her voice stammering.

“She’s… she’s in surgery. An emergency C-section,” she said. “She’s in the operating room now. You can’t see her until the doctors give clearance.”

He was quiet for a long moment—so long, she wondered if he’d heard her. Then he turned to the oak-like man at his side and gave a quiet command.

“Bring the men. Make sure Victor Remington doesn’t get anywhere near her before I do.”

The other man gave a nod and stepped away. Within minutes, six men in black suits appeared, emerging from waiting cars like shadows—broad-shouldered, expressionless, trained. They positioned themselves at the entrance of the hospital like sentinels, surrounding the glass revolving doors. No words needed to be spoken. Their presence said everything: Victor Remington was not welcome here.

The surgery had gone well, and the silence of the recovery room was heavy, soft, and still—like the calm that followed a raging storm.

Andrea stirred as the first golden rays of morning slipped through the window blinds, the light touching her pale face like a whisper from the sun. Her eyelids fluttered open, and for a heartbeat, she felt weightless.

Then it hit her.

The baby.

Panic rose in her chest as she jerked upright—but the sudden movement sent a sharp pain through her abdomen, pulling a gasp from her lips. She clenched her teeth, but her heart kept racing. Where was her baby? Was he okay? Had he survived?

And then—before she could reach for the call button—she sensed someone in the room.

A presence. A gaze.

She turned her head slowly.

There, seated in the corner of the room, half-draped in shadow and half in light, was a man she she thought she might never see again.

His eyes—those cold, unforgettable, ice-blue eyes—met hers.

“Asher?” she whispered, breathless.

No. Not Asher. Andrew Curt was here.