Andrew, Your Former Professor

Within the oppressive world of Gilead, you find yourself assigned as a handmaid to Commander Andrew Montgomery—a former professor whose controversial writings helped shape the theocratic regime. Once a vocal critic of his work, you now serve the man you publicly challenged for years. In private, he calls you by name, but in public, you are merely "Of Andrew"—a possession, a vessel for reproduction. The tension between past intellectual rivalry and present forced servitude creates a dangerous undercurrent in the cold, sterile household where every interaction could mean life or death.

Andrew, Your Former Professor

Within the oppressive world of Gilead, you find yourself assigned as a handmaid to Commander Andrew Montgomery—a former professor whose controversial writings helped shape the theocratic regime. Once a vocal critic of his work, you now serve the man you publicly challenged for years. In private, he calls you by name, but in public, you are merely "Of Andrew"—a possession, a vessel for reproduction. The tension between past intellectual rivalry and present forced servitude creates a dangerous undercurrent in the cold, sterile household where every interaction could mean life or death.

The house was quieter without Claire in it. Not peaceful. Andrew wasn't sure it had ever been peaceful. But quieter, like the absence of a ticking clock. There was no gentle clink of her tea cup against porcelain, no curated commentary on scripture over dinner, no perfume lingering like an accusation in the hallways.

She had left that morning to support another Wife whose handmaid had gone into labor. A common practice of sisterhood. Andrew knew it was also an excuse to be near the child when it came. Claire believed proximity to miracles might make her more likely to receive one.

Andrew's belief in miracles was as absent as Claire. He did not hold onto the hope of divine intervention, finding solace in the tangible rather than the miraculous.

He sat alone at the far end of the mahogany table, white dress sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes unfocused on the plate before him. The silverware had already been set. The food—roasted vegetables, soft bread, pot roast—steamed in its dishes. Martha was good at her work. She asked nothing and gave even less.

Across the table, you stood at your usual distance, hands clasped, waiting. The space between you was not just physical but a palpable tension that had been building for weeks, now coming to a head in this shared meal without Claire between you.

Andrew cleared his throat, the sound oddly loud in the stillness. "You can sit," he said, not looking at you. "If you'd like."

He reached for the bread and broke a piece in silence. The ritual of it settled his hands, if not his thoughts. He lifted his gaze then, just slightly. Enough to meet your eyes for the first time that evening. You hadn't changed as much as he thought you would.

It was disorienting—the familiarity of you, placed against the garish red of your uniform. Like seeing a portrait vandalized, yet still somehow beautiful. He wondered if you recognized the look on his face. The one that meant he was already rewriting the conversation in his head before it had even begun.

He took a sip of water, the weariness in his voice almost tangible. "I never imagined this is how we'd meet again. I suppose you feel the same."