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Andrea Cullen POV
“Andrea, you came! I really missed you,” Martin said as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me.
Does this man not understand simple words?
Just yesterday, I told him to *f**k off*. And now he’s hugging me like nothing happened, right in the middle of the hall.
My parents exchanged glances, their expressions heavy with unspoken questions. I’d already told them I planned to call off the engagement, but here Martin was, playing the doting fiancé as if he owned the place.
We were supposed to be celebrating Christmas, but my mood was sinking fast. All I could see was *him*—the man who had destroyed everything in my past life, clinging to me like a leech.
“Aren’t you embarrassed? Hugging my sister in front of us?” Krish, my little brother, piped up, his voice cutting through the tension.
Martin let go of me, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. I was just too excited.”
Excited, my foot.
“Merry Christmas, Uncle, Auntie,” he said, flashing his fake charm at my parents.
They didn’t even try to hide their distaste, offering curt nods in response.
Then he turned to me, his tone sickeningly sweet. “Can I take Andrea with me? We missed Christmas Eve together yesterday. I just want to spend some time with her today.”
Mom’s gaze snapped to mine, her question clear even before she spoke. “Do you want to go?”
Did I? I’d spent the whole night thinking it over. Breaking the engagement outright would be simple, but *simple* wouldn’t cut it. Not for what I had in mind. If I was going to exact my revenge, letting Martin off too easily wasn’t an option.
“I’d love to, Mom. Don’t worry,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
Martin grasped my hand as we walked out, his touch making my skin crawl.
“You seemed angry on the phone last night,” he said, his tone light, as if testing the waters.
This man has some nerve.
“No,” I said calmly, not bothering to look at him. “It was just stress. I didn’t mean to curse at you. I’m sorry.” I cringed at my own apology.
Inside, my fury simmered. *Not yet, Martin. I’ll make you pay—but on my terms.*
“I know, my sweet Andrea could never do that to me.”
“Where are you taking me?” I cut off his cheesy words, my tone flat, betraying the utter lack of trust I had in this pathetic excuse of a man.
“For Christmas special shots! This party has the best of them. I already tried a few while waiting for you,” Martin replied, flashing that smug grin I used to think was charming.
I arched a brow. “But I don’t drink, Martin. Don’t you know that?”
The question landed like a slap, his grin faltering for a brief moment before he recovered. “Of course I know, but it’s Christmas! You can have a few, can’t you? It won’t kill you.”
His words made my stomach churn. How many times had I bent my own rules for him in the past, letting him dictate my choices, thinking it was love?
“No, thank you,” I said curtly, turning my gaze to the window as the car sped down the brightly lit streets.
Martin chuckled nervously, clearly thrown off by my cold demeanor. “Alright, alright. No shots for you. How about a fruit shot instead?”
I tilted my head, studying him. What was he planning? Something about his insistence didn’t sit right with me. The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I felt. Still, I forced a smile. “I’d gladly drink that.”
I know I’m already behaving out of character, so it's better not to give him any reason to doubt me. I need to act like I used to.
Martin grinned, clearly pleased with himself. He guided me to a small bar set up for the party guests. I perched on a stool, watching as he leaned over to speak to the bartender.
“The Christmas shot I booked earlier—bring me that, and replace hers with a fruit shot,” he said smoothly. But the pointed look he gave the bartender said more than his words. There was a glint in his eyes, a silent instruction that made my stomach churn.
*He’s planning something.*
I kept my expression neutral, though my mind raced with many questions.
The bartender nodded and turned to prepare the drinks. I folded my hands on the counter, acting normal. Or trying to be.
A few moments later, the bartender returned, placing two glasses in front of us. Martin slid one toward me, his smile too wide to be genuine. “Here you go, Andrea, Merry Christmas.”
I took the glass, holding it up as if to toast. “Merry Christmas,” I replied, my voice even.
He downed his drink in one go, watching me expectantly. I brought the glass to my lips, pausing just before taking a sip.
“You know,” I said, setting the glass down deliberately, “I’m suddenly not in the mood. The fruit looks fresher than this drink. I think I’ll grab a plate instead.”
Martin’s expression faltered for a split second, his carefully crafted mask slipping. “Oh, come on, Andrea. Just a sip. It’s not like I spiked it or anything.” He laughed, but it sounded forced.
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “That’s an oddly specific thing to say, Martin. Why would you even mention that?”
He froze, caught off guard. “W-what? I was joking!”
“Why are you sounding so worked up? I was joking too,” I said, raising the glass with an easy smile before downing the shot in one go.
The bitterness lingered on my tongue, the taste off in a way that sent alarms ringing in my head. But I refused to let Martin see my suspicion.
“Give me a few minutes,” I said, pushing back from the stool. “I need to use the bathroom.”
Martin nodded, watching me a little too closely. “Sure thing. I’ll wait here for you.”
I walked away calmly, forcing steady steps despite the strange warmth spreading through my body. My legs felt heavier with each step, and the edges of my vision blurred slightly. *What the hell was in that drink?*
Reaching the hallway, I gripped the wall for support, my breath quickening. My head swam, and a wave of nausea hit me. I staggered forward, stumbling into the washroom.
The bright fluorescent light hit me like a slap, and I leaned heavily against the sink. My reflection stared back at me—pale, clammy, and drenched in sweat, with beads of it forming on my forehead.
‘Get it together,’ I whispered hoarsely, splashing cold water on my face. The chill helped, but only slightly. Whatever was in that drink was strong—and fast-acting.
Behind me, the door creaked open. My heart jumped, and I spun around unsteadily to face a man entering.
“What the—?” I gasped, my vision swimming as I tried to focus on the man in front of me. Even through the haze, I could make out his towering frame—broad shoulders, a tall, imposing build. At 5’6, I wasn’t exactly short, but this man was a giant.
Despite his striking presence, his face remained blurred, just out of reach of clarity.
“You’re in the wrong place, mister,” I said, trying to sound stable. My legs wobbled beneath me, and I gripped the edge of the sink to keep myself upright.
He didn’t say a word, just stood there, staring at me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered, frustration bubbling up. He barged into the wrong washroom and didn’t even have the decency to apologize or leave.
Steeling myself, I stumbled toward him. “What do you think you are? Leave!” I reached out to shove him, but my coordination betrayed me.
My knees gave out, and I slipped, collapsing onto the floor. A wave of nausea hit me hard, and before I could stop it, I vomited all over his expensive-looking pants and polished shoes.
For a moment, there was only silence, broken by my ragged breathing.
The man finally spoke, his voice low and calm, though laced with disdain. “Disgusting.”
My stomach churned—not just from the alcohol, but from his audacity. “What did you just call me?” I growled, grabbing at his pants for support as I tried to push myself up.
I tilted my head back to glare at him, still sprawled on the floor, but my words died in my throat. My eyes widened as they landed on something *unexpected.*
"Had a good view?"
- Writer
