“Rachel, could you give Chloe the development rights for that land in New York?”
The tenderness I’d felt moments earlier froze instantly.
I stared at him, my eyes filled with emotions he couldn’t read. After a long pause, I said,
“Andrew, do you even realize how cruel you are?”
His expression darkened.
“Cruel? No, Rachel—you’re the cruel one. Don’t think I don’t know this is all your doing with Dad.”
“If you don’t agree, then Buddy won’t live.”
In his hand was a photo of Buddy hooked up to IVs at the clinic.
My voice trembled. After a long silence, I finally whispered, “Fine.”
You can’t force love. I finally understood.
Soon after, Andrew took Chloe on a “business trip” to New York, though their social media was flooded with photos that looked more like a honeymoon.
That day was my father’s death anniversary. I sat before his grave, torturing myself by staring at those photos.
Grief overwhelmed me, and without realizing it, I drank too much. Through tears, I called Andrew Smith, sobbing that I missed him, that I wanted to see him.
He hung up and immediately bought the earliest flight back. When I woke, I was still in a daze.
Seeing him bustling in the kitchen filled me with shock and joy.