Andrew felt a chill slither down his spine as the man's eyes pinned him with an intense, unreadable stare. A strange pressure settled on his chest, and his steps faltered.
Why is he looking at me like that? he thought, trying to sidestep the thickening awkwardness and move past.
"Who are you? And what are you doing in my daughter's room?" the man demanded, his voice sharp and clipped, full of suspicion. His eyes didn't waver.
I can't just tell him I'm his daughter's fated partner, Andrew thought, his heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears. He cleared his throat. "I went to the same school as your daughter. We were friends, and I was recently admitted to this hospital. That's how I knew she was here, sir."
"You went to the same school as my daughter?" The man's skepticism thickened, his gaze like a scalpel dissecting Andrew's every word.
"Yes, sir. Dream High Middle School," Andrew answered evenly. Thank goodness I did a little background check on her; who knew it would come in handy? Andrew thought.
The man's shoulders loosened slightly. "Then you already know what she did… the kind of monster she is," he said bitterly, his voice lowering as his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He glanced back toward Sophia's room.
"Yes, I was told by the nurse what happened," Andrew replied, keeping his tone neutral, though his stomach twisted at the man's pain.
"Then why visit someone who killed her entire family?" His voice cracked. "I barely escaped. I can't wait for her to die so she can pay for what she did to my wife and children." His lips trembled, and his hands shook slightly at his sides.
Andrew stood still, caught in a storm of grief that wasn't his. "I'm sorry for what happened." Andrew's throat tightened. Something about this version of the story didn't sit right—but he couldn't say why. The man's grief was real, but so was the gnawing doubt in Andrew's gut.
"I need to get going, sir." With a respectful bow of his head, Andrew turned and walked away, the man's burning stare trailing him like a shadow.
---
Andrew didn't remember how he got to the car. The man's words clung to him like static. Only when his head throbbed again did the present pull him back. The morning light felt harsher than usual, slicing across his windshield.
I need a hangover drink before I even think about facing customers, he groaned internally, massaging his temple.
Buzz Buzz.
His phone lit up: Caller ID – Grandma.
Andrew smiled despite himself and answered. "Hello, Granny!"
"Andrew, baby! How's my favorite grandson doing?"
"Grandma, I told you to stop calling me that!" he chuckled, the warmth in her voice easing some of the morning's tension. "I'm okay. How about you? How's your health? Sorry I haven't visited; the café's been swamped lately."
"Hmph! Who else am I going to call my baby? Your grandfather's not around anymore, so you inherited the title!" His grandmother's voice was full of warmth, her adoration evident.
"I'm fine; my health isn't bothering me. You don't need to worry too much about me. Just do your thing, okay?"
"Yes, Granny," Andrew replied, smiling.
"Andrew, will you come over for your brother's party? I know you haven't gone home in eight years," his grandmother asked, her tone hopeful.
Andrew's heart tensed. "Granny… I don't know. You know what they're like. I don't want to go back there."
"I understand. But Andrew, your café is doing amazing! You proved them wrong. They said you'd fail—and look at you! Come and show them. Show them you're proud of yourself."
He tapped the wheel, conflicted. "I'll think about it."
"I'll be there too," she added gently.
"Fine. I'll come," he said at last.
She laughed. "That's my boy. I love you. Always will."
"I love you too, Granny."
As the call ended, memories washed over him—her unwavering support when he'd decided to open a café instead of going to college. Her voice from years ago echoed in his head: 'Andrew, baby, no matter what choice you make, I'll always support you.' He smiled.
---
Days passed. Work at the café blurred together in a steady rhythm, but the anxiety in Andrew's chest only grew. And then—it was party day.
As he drove to his parents' mansion, anxiety curled tight in his stomach. The gates stood open, glittering in the evening sun.
The security guards were stunned. "Welcome back, young master!" they chorused, stepping aside.
He gave a curt nod, the sight of the mansion stirring a tangle of memories. Luxury and coldness wrapped around every surface.
Inside, the party buzzed with muted chatter, soft music, and the clink of expensive glass. Champagne flutes sparkled. Crystal chandeliers glinted like icicles overhead. Laughter drifted through the halls, but to Andrew, it all sounded hollow—like a stage play he no longer belonged in.
Andrew slipped upstairs to his old room. He opened the door—and it was like stepping back into another life. His bed was made. His old computer still hummed faintly. Baking books and school textbooks lined the shelf with undisturbed precision.
He flopped down on the bed. Coming back here isn't exactly pleasant, he thought, staring at the ceiling.
An announcement rang out—guests being summoned. With a sigh that seemed to drain the strength from his bones, Andrew got up and went downstairs.
There they were. His mother, regal in a red gown, and his father, stiff and polished in a tailored suit.
His mother was the first to speak. "I thought you said you weren't coming," she remarked as she approached him.
"I came because of Grandma, nothing else," Andrew replied curtly, glancing at her before focusing on his father. "How have you been, Father?" he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.
"Hmm… After so long, I don't even know why you came back. Still running a café? Pathetic. Look at how you're spoiling our family name. Why can't you just be like your younger brother?" Andrew's father said disdainfully.
He hadn't heard his father's voice in years—and yet it still cut the same.
Andrew clenched his jaw. "If that's all you have to say, I'll go find Grandma."
He walked away, his father's words trailing behind him like ash. He moved through the crowd, suffocating under invisible weight.
He found her.
"Grandma!" he called, his voice lightening.
She turned and beamed. "My big baby! You came!"
"I promised, didn't I?" He hugged her tight.
Leonard stood nearby, arms crossed. "Mother said you weren't coming."
Andrew met his brother's glare. Still the same smug face. "Well, I'm here."
He hesitated, then added, "Congrats on becoming director."
Leonard blinked, surprised, but masked it quickly. "Thank you."
"Grandma, let's go. It's about to start," Leonard said, offering his arm.
Andrew watched them walk away, chest tightening.
As he moved toward the main hall, something caught his eye—a door slightly ajar. His father's study.
Curiosity tugged at him. He stepped in.
His breath caught before his eyes registered what he was seeing. A familiar face—Samuel Miles. Smiling beside his father as if they were old friends. The room spun slightly.
They know each other? he thought, walking closer to the picture. They looked young, probably still in college. For his father to display the picture on his desk suggested they were close.
It was strange—he couldn't recall ever seeing Samuel Miles growing up, but the unease in his gut said they were no strangers.
When he first encountered Samuel Miles, he felt something was off. There's definitely something wrong with him, unease creeping in.
Suddenly, he felt weak and drained, as if all his strength had evaporated. If I'm going to collapse, I'm not doing it in front of this family.
Stumbling out, he found his grandmother again.
"I'm not feeling well. I'm heading out," he whispered.
She cupped his face, concerned. "Okay, baby. Be safe."
Without another word, he slipped away—out of the mansion. The cool night air hit his skin like a splash of clarity. He didn't look back.