Andrew's POV:
Two days ago
Everything had been so disorganised in my life since that day.
As I woke up, the hue of the setting sun showed how late it was. My hands reached out instinctively, eyes still half-shut, only to find the space beside me cold and empty.
'She must have left early ' I thought, but my heart still ached.
Few minutes passed before my focus cleared. I tried calling her, but her phone wasn't going through.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary before finally deciding to leave a message.
" Call me when you can. I just .... need to know you're okay".
I knew it was late— too late to fix anything, I didn't even feel the urge to do anything in particular.
I felt so drained. The thought of getting out of bed creeped me out, but I had to go to work the next day, heir or not.
***
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, half-hopping that the water would wash away the heaviness I've been carrying. It didn't.
I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself. Not because I looked different, but because I couldn't understand how I'd let it all spiral so fast. Elizabeth. Penelope. The lies. The betrayal. And now... silence.
I didn't want to think about it anymore. I wanted to scream —desperately —but sounds never came.
I just stood there, breathing hard. Then I pushed my thoughts aside.
*****
Trying to shut it all out, I turned to something i could control— the new script layout proposal for the anchors. I had ideas I'd been meaning to flesh out, but with everything that had happened, they had slipped my mind.
Still, I opened my laptop, pulled up a blank document, and stared at it for a while. Then slowly, almost instinctively, I began to type.
One line turned into a paragraph. Then another.
Before I knew it, the silence of the room was filled with the quiet clicking of my keyboard. Ideas poured in—clean transitions, visual prompts, fresh segment structures, even a new approach for the late-night talk. I hadn't felt this clear in weeks.
It felt... good.
It wasn't escape. It was purpose. For the first time since everything unraveled, I felt like I could breathe through something.
Hours passed unnoticed. The night stretched long and still around me, the only sign of time moving was the dull ache in my back and the strain in my eyes.
By the time I checked the clock, it was almost 4 a.m.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a long sigh. The document was full—almost twenty pages of clean notes, outlines, and draft samples.
I was proud. Not because I had forgotten her or forgiven myself—but because I had remembered myself.
'I still have penelope though' I thought to myself before shutting the laptop and moving to the couch, I planned to just rest my eyes for a few minutes.
Sleep found me before I could even decide if I wanted it.
----•""•----
Morning edged its way into the room.
The first light of day filtered through the blinds in thin, even stripes, casting faint shadows across the hardwood floor.
Outside, the estate was just beginning to stir—sprinklers clicked on in neat, trimmed lawns, a jogger passed by on the sidewalk with earbuds in, and somewhere down the street, a garage door hummed open.
Inside, it was still quiet.
Andrew lay motionless on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the other hanging off the edge. His laptop was shut on the coffee table, a few crumpled notes beside it. The air was cool and dry, tinged with the faint scent of coffee grounds left in the trash.
Then suddenly—he jerked awake.
His whole body tensed as if he'd been falling. Heart pounding, lungs tight. For a second, he didn't know where he was. Just the ceiling. Just the quiet.
He sat up slowly, blinking hard, rubbing his hand over his face. The sky outside was a soft, early blue now, clear and cloudless. Somewhere down the street, a sprinkler clicked on.
It was a new day. But the weight in his chest hadn't gone anywhere.
Andrew reached for his phone on the floor beside the couch, the screen lighting up as he turned it over in his hand.
6 : 17 AM.
Three missed calls. One from a number he didn't recognize, the others from Dad.
He stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering. No messages. No texts from her.
He unlocked the phone and scrolled through his notifications—nothing that mattered. News alerts, spam emails, a calendar reminder about a meeting he'd probably reschedule anyway.
He decided to try calling her again. Tapping on it, he hesitated, then pressed the Call button.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then went to voicemail.
No response. Just a robotic voice:
"The person you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message."
Andrew hung up. There was no point.
Andrew dropped the phone beside him on the couch and pushed to his feet with a quiet groan. His back ached from a night on the couch, and the dull throb behind his eyes hadn't faded.
In the kitchen, he started the coffeemaker, pouring the first dark stream into his mug before heading back to the living room.
He flicked on the TV, expecting the usual background noise—traffic updates, weather, headlines he'd half-listen to.
Instead, the words on screen made him pause mid-sip.
"…an explosion at St. Grace Hospital is under investigation this morning. Officials confirm the blast occurred late last night, causing significant damage to the west wing and prompting a partial evacuation of the facility…"
Andrew's brow creased.
He knew the name—more like it rang a bell. But he couldn't just recall where he heard the name from.
Turning up the volume,his eyes narrowing on the footage of emergency vehicles and rubble.
"…no official statement yet from hospital management, though anonymous sources suggest the incident may not have been accidental…"
His brows furrowed.
Why did this feel… off?
He took a slow sip of coffee, but the taste barely registered. A tightness crept into his chest as the report went on.
But he couldn't ignore the way his gut twisted.
The TV droned on in the background, the footage of St. Grace's Hospital still playing as Andrew sank deeper into the couch, coffee growing cold in his hands.
Then it hit him.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he finally let it out.
St. Grace.
His father had shares in that hospital—part of a quiet investment deal he rarely spoke about, the kind of move made not for publicity but for power. Seeing the hospital's west wing torn apart by fire and debris made Andrew's chest tighten in a new way. Not just because of the news, but because of the implications.
He stood abruptly, pacing to the kitchen and back before reaching for his phone again—this time to call his father—but stopped when a ping interrupted his screen.
Mr Garcia: " Come to my office when you get to work".