Chapter Fifteen-Andrea
Hours Later–Remy’s House
I wake up in a bed that smells fresh and clean, but also like him—soap, cedarwood, and something darker.
Something I remember too well.
The sheets are cool against my skin.
My shoes and jacket are off.
Someone tucked me in.
I sit up, confused and still fuzzy headed from the nap and the whiplash of the day.
Voices.
Low male voices are coming from the living room.
I get up and pad down the hallway.
My hand finds the archway, and then I see them.
“What-what’s going on?”
Remy stands in his living room, broad shoulders tense in a perfectly tailored shirt, next to two unfamiliar men.
One wears a dark suit and holds a leather folio. The other has a tablet and a stapled pile of papers in front of him.
Remy turns.
His expression is unreadable.
“This,” he says, holding out a piece of paper. “Is a marriage license.”
My stomach drops.
I blink at the document like I’ve never seen English before. “A what?”
“Listen to me, Andy.” His voice softens, but it’s still got that commanding edge. “No child of mine is being born out of wedlock.”
My knees wobble. “You can’t be serious.”
“I called your parents. They’re on their way. But I think you should sign this first. It’s best if we have a unified front.”
My parents are coming here?
Now.
To witness my shame. See the mess I made and try to fix it. To save me once again.
Fuck.
What was it he said?
It’s best if we have a unified front.
Like we’re already some kind of cold, political alliance.
“I—Remy, you didn’t even ask me.”
“I’m not asking you the same way you didn’t ask me,” he says, then lowers his voice.
“But I’m not forcing you either. You want to raise the twins alone, fighting off my family and yours? Be my guest. But I promise you, I won’t let this go. I will sue you for full custody.”
“You wouldn’t,” I gasp, my hand going to the front of my belly.
“I will. For my sake and Callie’s. Those babies are her family, too, Andy. Now, do it like this, marry me, and we raise the babies together,” he says, making so much sense it makes me want to cry.
“It’ll be better for everyone, Andy. I’m offering you protection. Support. A father who shows up. And yes—my name. So no one gets to say a fucking word when they look at our kids.”
Our kids.
Our kids.
I’m trembling, staring at the page.
“Don’t do it for me,” he adds, voice lower now. “Do it for them. The kids. Do it because you’re sick of people saving you like you don’t know your own damn mind.”
I blink fast.
Because, damn him, he knows me.
I grab the pen.
I sign.
My fingers shake, but I do it.
And then the man with the book steps forward.
“Witnesses are present. Let’s make this official.”
This is happening.
This is real.
And I barely hear the words.
I can’t even remember what I repeat.
But I remember his voice.
Steady. Commanding.
“Say I do, Andy,” he murmurs.
His voice is low. Steady.
But there’s something behind it—a tremor, maybe.
Something wild and wounded trying not to show.
My mouth moves before I can stop it.
“I do.”
Two simple words. And just like that, everything changes.
A beat passes. Maybe it’s a second, maybe a century.
Then Remy’s hands are on me. His mouth crushes mine.
The kiss is hard, hot, possessive—like the whole fucking world belongs to him now.
Maybe it does.
Maybe I do.
I feel dizzy with it. Branded by it.
There’s no room for breath, no time to think.
Only heat and tongue and this terrible, intoxicating ache that slams into me like a freight train.
When he finally pulls back, his brow is drawn like he’s shouldering a burden too heavy to speak aloud.
He cups my cheek with one of those big, battle-scarred hands, eyes scanning mine like he’s trying to memorize me—just in case.
“I’ll take care of you, Andy,” he says quietly.
It sounds like a vow.
It is a vow.
And yet, somehow, it feels like a goodbye.
He says it like he’s not happy about this either.
Like he’s just made a deal with the devil and I’m the prize and the penance all at once.
I nod, because what else is there to do?
He’s a good man. I know he thinks he means it.
And maybe that’s the cruelest part.
Because right here, right now—with a marriage license drying on the table and a stranger still packing up his notary book—I feel a sorrow so deep it lodges in my chest like a splintered bone.
This wasn’t supposed to hurt.
It was supposed to be a plan.
A solution.
A way to take control of my future, not hand my heart over like an idiot.
But looking at Remy—strong and conflicted and trying so fucking hard to be noble—I feel it.
The mistake.
The loss of what could’ve been.
Because maybe—just maybe—that flirty friendship, that slow-burn heat, that thing we had building between us like tension before a kiss—maybe that could’ve grown into something real.
Something big.
Something good.
But now?
Now we’ll never know.
Because of me.
Because I jumped the gun.
I forced the issue.
I let fear and desire and desperation steer the wheel.
I played stupid games.
And in doing so, I broke us before we ever had a chance to begin.
God, I am so damn sorry for that.
I just hope he never finds out how much.
And I hope I don’t either.