Chapter 199

Chapter 23

“What… what are you doing here?”

The words left Andrea’s lips in a whisper, tasting familiar, almost like déjà vu. She had asked the same question not long ago, when he had appeared on her doorstep like a ghost from her past. But this time, the question died on her tongue the moment her eyes dropped to what—or rather, who—he was holding in his arms.

Her heart stuttered.

He was holding her baby.

Cradled carefully against Andrew’s broad chest, wrapped tightly in a hospital-issued blanket, was her son—tiny, red-cheeked, peaceful. But it wasn’t just the sight of her child that rooted her in place—it was the way Andrew was looking at him.

Like he was holding something holy.

His sharp, intimidating features had softened, his blue eyes wide with wonder, filled with something she hadn't expected—awe. There was gentleness there, and something even deeper. Love? It caught her off guard, made her heart ache.

It should have been Victor Remington in that chair, holding their son. It should have been him. And yet… the image hadn’t moved her like this did. Watching Andrew—this man—cradle her child as though he were the most fragile and precious thing in the world made something twist inside her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She tried to sit up, her body moving before her mind could stop it—only to be hit by a sharp, searing pain across her abdomen. She cried out, breath catching.

“Lie back down, you stupid, stubborn woman.”

His voice snapped, but it wasn’t cruel. It was laced with panic.

He was beside her in an instant, his eyes flashing with worry. “You just had a C-section, for God’s sake. You’re not supposed to be moving.”

“My baby…” she gasped, her voice breaking as she slowly eased herself back against the pillows. Her arms lifted, reaching instinctively. “Please… let me hold him.”

Andrew hesitated only a second. Then, with a gentleness that didn’t match the harshness of his voice earlier, he leaned down and carefully transferred the baby into her waiting arms. His coat sleeve brushed softly against the thin cotton of her hospital gown, warm and familiar.

The moment their baby touched her skin, Andrea felt the world tilt back into place. Her arms curled protectively around his tiny frame, tears springing uninvited into her eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Andrew murmured, his voice low—like speaking too loud might break the moment.

Andrea couldn’t take her eyes off her son. Yes, she thought. Yes, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

She pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s forehead, her heart overflowing. But Andrew wasn’t finished.

“He doesn’t quite live up to his name, though,” he added with a crooked, almost-smile. “Little Asher didn’t look very happy earlier while you were asleep. He cried his lungs out, wouldn’t stop. Cried until he couldn’t anymore… and then passed out.”

Asher.

He had called her baby Asher. The name hung in the air like a secret whispered into fate, and Andrea couldn’t ignore the meaning behind it—blessing, happy, fortunate. It was no accident, and it wasn’t lost on her. Her breath caught.

She looked up at him, really looked at him, and the question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice low and raw. “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, feeling the IV tug on her skin as she resisted the urge to scratch at the growing itch. Damn it, he always did this to her—unraveled her calm, made her pulse race with a thousand emotions she didn’t want to feel. She was already worn to the bone, and here he was, lighting more fires.

“Look, Mr. Andrew—”

“I’m here,” he cut her off, voice like steel barely sheathed in calm, “to save you from that bastard you’re about to marry, you stupid woman.”

She stared at him, stunned into silence.

He looked furious. Jaw clenched so tight she thought he might shatter his teeth, hands buried deep in his coat pockets like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding. Still, his voice stayed low—barely—a mercy for the sleeping infant in her arms. His eyes, though, were blazing.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

Her mouth went dry. Her lips felt like sandpaper as she licked them and forced words through the ache in her throat.

“Victor and I are getting married,” she said, stiff and trembling. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh really?” he snapped. “Then tell me why. Why the hell would you knowingly walk back into the flames after they already burned you once? I know why he’s doing it. I want to know why you are.”

Her heart squeezed. Her arms instinctively curled tighter around her son. “Because he’s my baby’s father,” she hissed, the desperation bleeding into her voice before she could swallow it down. “And as someone who grew up without one, I won’t let my child suffer that same damn void! Victor wants this baby. He wants to do the right thing. And I’m doing this—for my baby!”

She realized too late that she’d shouted, and immediately checked the bundle in her arms. Thankfully, the baby remained asleep, undisturbed, his tiny fingers curled into his chest. She sighed and looked away.

But then came the sound that cut through the room like a blade.

Laughter.

Only it wasn’t amused—it was bitter, cynical, dark. Like he was choking on rage. Andrew's laugh stopped as sharply as it started, his face cold, eyes unreadable now.

“So he’s fooled you again,” he muttered. “Wrapped you around his damn finger like always. Got you to dance for him and call it love.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Andrea’s voice trembled. A part of her already knew. God help her, she knew—but she wanted him to be wrong.

He leaned forward, his words now a venomous whisper, carefully, cruelly articulated.

“I mean your golden-boy fiancé isn’t marrying you out of love. He’s not doing it for some noble cause or because he suddenly realized the value of fatherhood.” Andrew’s voice dripped contempt. “He’s marrying you because if he doesn’t—he’ll be cut off. Disowned. His grandfather’s instruction is clear. Either he marries the mother of his child and proves he’s ‘family man material’—or he loses everything. The money. The Remington name. His position. Gone. And his darling cousin? The one he hates more than hell itself? He becomes the heir.”

Andrea felt the world tilt beneath her.

Her blood turned to ice.

“What do you mean by this?” Andrea asked, her voice a whisper that barely escaped her lips. “And how do you even know about any of this?”

Her chest was tight, each breath a little harder than the last. Because if this was true—if Victor never wanted the baby in the first place—then everything she had clung to, the one thread of hope that made this marriage seem worth enduring, would unravel. A father who didn’t love his son… that would be worse than no father at all.

Andrew didn’t flinch. His voice was calm, but there was something cold and furious beneath it.

“Our families go way back,” he said flatly. “Not in power, maybe—we’ve always had more of that—but the Remingtons? They’ve always had political reach. We cross paths. We hear things.”

He took a step forward, eyes dark and sharp as a blade.

“Gerald Remington—the patriarch—found out that his grandson had gotten a woman pregnant and left her to fend for herself. On the street. No help. No responsibility. Just… vanished. That didn’t sit well with the old man. So he laid down the law—either Victor cleans up his mess, marries you, and makes that baby legitimate… or he’s cut off.”

Andrea’s breath hitched. Andrew kept going, merciless now.

“No more Remington name. No more inherited fortune. No more million-dollar cars or midnight parties in Monaco. No more anything. He either marries you and plays the role of the perfect father and husband—or he loses his golden throne.”

He gave her a bitter smile. “So tell me, Andrea. Does that explain why your prince charming is so eager to play house all of a sudden?”

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Her gaze dropped to the tiny bundle in her arms, the little boy wrapped in soft blue, sleeping so peacefully—so unaware of the storm that surrounded his name, his blood, his very existence.

Her heart cracked in two.

Poor baby. Her beautiful boy.

He was innocent in all of this, and yet somehow already paying the price of being born to the wrong man, in the wrong story. Her throat trembled as she bent her head, pressing her lips gently to his forehead.

“I will love you, always,” she breathed, a silent vow etched in pain and fire. “So what if your father doesn’t want you? I will love you enough for both of us.”

Someone knocked on the door again—a soft, polite tap—and then it creaked open. A nurse stepped in, dressed crisply in white, a tray in her hands with neatly arranged vials and syringes.

Before Andrea could even ask, Andrew was already moving.

“I said get the hell out!” His voice cracked through the sterile air like a whip, making the nurse stumble back, nearly dropping the tray.

“Andrew—what are you doing?” Andrea gasped, wide-eyed as she clutched the baby closer. The nurse turned and bolted, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving a trail of tense silence behind.

Andrew turned to face her, eyes gleaming with fury, jaw clenched tight. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, shaking his head like she was the most naïve thing he’d ever seen.

Andrea’s stomach dropped. “Get what?”

He exhaled, slow and frustrated, then stalked toward the chair beside her bed. “I have bodyguards stationed at every exit of this hospital building,” he said flatly. “To stop Victor from getting anywhere near you.”

Her mouth parted in shock. “You can’t do that,” she whispered.

“I already did.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he growled, his voice low and burning. “From a man who doesn’t give a damn about you or that baby.” His gaze flickered briefly to the child in her arms before returning to her, sharp and unyielding. “But don’t worry. He’s not showing up. Not anytime soon.”

Andrea blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

He let out a slow, bitter sigh. “I only realized it after that nurse came in for the third time while you were asleep—trying to take blood from the baby again. There was no emergency investor meeting like Victor told you. That snake ran off because this was the plan all along. He’s waiting for the DNA results before he comes back to sign anything.”

Her throat dried instantly.

“He—what?”

Andrew’s jaw ticked. “His family paid for the test to be done behind your back. They’re going to claim it was a medical necessity, some urgent risk to the baby’s health. But the truth? They just want proof. Not out of love, or pride, or even basic human decency—just leverage. They won’t claim your son unless he’s their perfect little heir.”

Andrea felt like the room tilted around her. Her arms tightened instinctively around her baby, as if they’d try and snatch him from her right then and there.

“And once they have that proof,” Andrew continued, eyes burning, “they’ll have legal grounds to challenge you. Don’t you see? If that test comes back positive, they could take him. Victor doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even care about this baby. All he wants is to keep his grandfather’s estate and his place on the throne.”

Andrea pressed her lips to her baby’s forehead, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Why are you even here?” she whispered. “Why do you care?”

“Because you don’t seem to care enough about yourself!” he snapped, then stood, pacing the room. “You were about to marry that scumbag after everything he’s done to you. How could you let him back in?”

Her anger flared, hot and wild. “Because I thought it would give my son the kind of life I never had!” she yelled. “Because I thought—even if Victor didn’t love me—he’d at least provide! That he’d want his son, and raise him with the power and privilege I never had!”

The baby stirred in her arms, startled by the rising voices, and seconds later began to cry.

Andrea’s heart cracked open.

She rocked him gently, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood.

“I just wanted him to have a chance,” she whispered, tears falling freely now. “Even if it meant I had to suffer.”

She didn’t look at Andrew. She couldn’t. But she felt his silence as loud as thunder.

“Can you… can you just leave me alone for a while?” she asked, her voice small. “Please. Just me and my baby.”

She hadn’t expected him to agree. But he did.

Without a word, Andrew turned and walked to the door. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but there was something raw in his eyes as he looked at her one last time before he gently pulled the door closed behind him.

The hours crawled by.

The baby cried endlessly, refusing to latch no matter how many times she tried. Her body ached, her mind burned, her chest tightened with every sob he made—and every scream she swallowed. And still, no sign of Victor. But the nurse came back. This time with a different face and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Andrea had glared and said nothing. She didn’t need to. The nurse didn’t make it past the door.

She would never let them near her baby again.

She’d sooner burn the proof than give them a single drop of her son’s blood.

It was nearly dawn when the door opened once more.

Andrea looked up with bleary eyes, expecting another nurse. But it was Andrew.

His shirt was wrinkled. His jaw shadowed with a night’s worth of stubble. He looked tired, worn down, like he hadn’t slept a second.

But his eyes were steady. Cold. Decisive.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said.

She blinked at him. “What now?”

His hands slid into his pockets as he stepped closer, never breaking eye contact. The silence between them crackled like static.

“Marry me.”