Billionaire's Ruin: Begging at Her Tombstone

EVE

FLASHBACK

The moonlight cast silver streaks across the Princeton campus lake. Sean's fingers intertwined with mine as we sat on the wooden dock, our legs dangling over the edge. The night air carried the scent of summer storms and unspoken promises.

"Sean," I whispered, leaning my head against his shoulder. "Do you think we'll be together forever?"

He turned to face me, those deep blue eyes somehow both intense and gentle. His thumb traced circles on my palm—a habit he had whenever he was about to say something important.

"We will," he answered, voice steady and sure. No hesitation. Not even a hint of doubt. Just that absolute certainty that made my heart swell with hope.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "Sean Winters, I love you." The words flowed easily, right from my core.

He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me in that protective way that always made me feel invincible. "Eve, you're mine," he whispered against my hair. "Forever. Always will be."

Forever. What a joke. What a cruel, empty word.

What we don't realize when we're young and stupidly in love is that "forever" is just a word we use to describe how intensely we feel in the moment. That "I love you" can turn to "I hate you" faster than you can blink. That promises break as easily as hearts do.

FLASHBACK END

"Ms. Carter, can you confirm that you were with Mr. Winters on June 6th at Princeton University campus?"

The judge's voice yanked me back to the present—to the cold, unforgiving wood of the witness stand, to the eyes of twelve jurors dissecting my every expression, to Sean's rigid posture across the courtroom.

"Yes," I answered, my voice smaller than I intended. "I was."

The courtroom felt suffocating. Every breath seemed too loud, every movement too pronounced. Sean sat motionless, his eyes fixed on me. Not with love or tenderness, but with a desperate plea I couldn't answer.

This is hell. My own creation. And I'm trapped in it.

"And did you witness Mr. Winters assault the victim at the campus party that night, resulting in permanent disabilities?"

The question hung in the air, choking me. I glanced at my father, Robert Carter, sitting in the front row. His expression remained calm, but his eyes held the threat. Crystal clear.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The judge tapped his gavel.

"Ms. Carter, I need an answer. Did you witness the assault?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. Say no. Just say no. Two letters. One syllable. God, why can't I just say it?

The truth burned in my throat. It wasn't Sean. It never was.

It was Ryan—my half-brother. My father's precious son from his second marriage. Ryan who had too much to drink that night. Ryan who couldn't handle being challenged. Ryan who threw that punch that changed everything.

I remember my father's office the morning after. The hushed voices. The panic in his eyes when the police called saying they had a witness who saw someone from our family at the scene.

"We'll get Frank's son to take the blame," my father had said to Jessica, my stepmother. "He's nobody. I can make this go away."

When they arrested him, he refused to confess to a crime he didn't commit. He refused to be bought.

That's when my father came to me.

"Eve, your mother needs round-the-clock care. Who do you think pays for that? Who do you think has kept her alive all these years?"

My mother, Margaret. Trapped in a vegetative state after a "fall" down the stairs years ago. A fall I never believed was an accident.

"Your choice is simple," my father continued. "Either Sean goes to jail, or your mother's care becomes... less attentive."

To drive the point home, Jessica had visited my mother's facility that night. She sent me a photo—her standing over my mother's bed, a blade pressed against Margaret's throat.

"Accidents happen every day," the text read.

Sean or my mother. That was my choice. What kind of choice is that? What kind of father makes their own daughter choose between the man she loves and her mother's life? The kind who raised me, apparently.

"Yes," I finally said, the word scraping my throat raw. "On June 6th at approximately 10 PM, I was at the Princeton campus party and I saw Sean Winters assault that student, causing his injuries."

The lie burned my tongue. I couldn't look at Sean, but I felt his shock ripple through the courtroom. When I finally forced myself to meet his gaze, I wished I hadn't. His entire body had gone rigid, his eyes—those eyes that once looked at me with so much love—now completely hollow.

I deserve his hatred. I deserve worse. I'm sending an innocent man—the man I love—to prison to save my mother. What does that make me?

"Mr. Winters, do you have anything to say in your defense?" the judge asked.

Sean's voice was barely audible. "I have nothing to say." His eyes never left mine. "Nothing at all."

The judge's verdict came down hard: "Sean Winters, I hereby sentence you to three years imprisonment and a fine of fifty thousand dollars."

As they led him away, Sean turned back once. Just once. His eyes met mine across the courtroom, and I saw something in them I'd never seen before—pure, undiluted hatred. In that moment, I knew I'd lost him forever.

Three days later, I sat in the prison visiting room, hands trembling on the cold metal table. When Sean walked in, handcuffed and wearing that orange jumpsuit that seemed to drain all color from his face, my heart broke all over again.

"Sean, please," I started as soon as he sat down. "I'll find a way to get you out. I promise. I'll find evidence, I'll—"

"Stop." His voice cut through mine like ice. "Eve, we're done. It's over."

"You don't understand, I had no choice—"

"There's always a choice." His eyes were colder than I'd ever seen them. "You chose. Now we both live with it."

He's right. He's right to hate me. I hate myself more than he ever could.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded stack of papers. My breath caught—they were the portraits I'd drawn of him during our first spring together. He'd kept them all this time.

Sean unfolded them slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, with clinical precision, he tore the first one in half. Then quarters. Then eighths, until it was nothing but scraps on the table between us. He picked up the second drawing and repeated the process. Then the third. One by one, each portrait met the same fate.

Each tear felt like it was going through my heart. And I deserved every painful rip.

"Sean, please—"

"Eve," he said, standing up. "We're done. Whatever was between us is dead. Thanks to you."

The guard moved to take him back, and Sean turned away without another glance.

"Sean!" I called after him.

He stopped but didn't turn around.

"I'll wait for you," I promised, voice breaking. "Three years. I'll be here."

Sean laughed—a hollow, terrible sound. "Don't bother. We're finished. This," he gestured between us, "is finished. Whatever we had... is gone. Thanks to you."

He walked away, each step crushing the torn pieces of my drawing under his prison-issued shoes.

"Sean!" I cried out, one last desperate attempt. "Sean, please!"

He didn't turn back. Not even a flinch to show he'd heard me.

The door closed behind him with a heavy clang that seemed to echo my heartbeat. The guard gave me a pitying look as I collapsed back into the chair, my entire body shaking.

"I'm pregnant," I whispered to the empty room, my hand moving to my still-flat stomach. "Sean... we're having a baby."

A sharp pain stabbed through my stomach. I doubled over, gasping and clutching my belly as cold sweat hit my forehead. When I stood up, I saw blood spreading across my white pants.