Chapter 2
EVE
Six years later
The massive LED screen dominated Manhattan's financial district, Sean's face towering above the crowded street. I paused outside a company, another rejection letter crumpled in my purse.
"Mr. Winters, to what do you attribute your unprecedented success?" the interviewer asked on screen.
Sean's eyes—harder and colder than I remembered—stared through the camera. "Hatred is an excellent motivator."
The crowd around me applauded. They couldn't know those eyes used to crinkle when he laughed. Those lips used to whisper promises against my hair at night.
The interviewer pressed further. "There have been rumors about your past. Your three years in prison and the woman who testified against you—"
Sean cut him off, his expression hardening. "Sometimes, curiosity isn't a good thing."
My stomach knotted. Six years, and he still couldn't even reference me directly.
I deserved it. Every bit of his hatred. Every second of his contempt.
"You could have told the truth," my brain screamed. "You could have saved him."
But I couldn't. Not with my mother's life hanging in the balance. Not with Jessica's knife at her throat.
My fingers touched the silver ring hanging from my neck. S&E engraved inside. Six years, and I still wore it.
I kept walking, the rejection letter in hand. Getting fired from NBC New York had blacklisted me everywhere because I had offended Sean. No job, no income.
I checked my bank account: $214.63. I thought of Grace, our daughter. She was born with a heart condition, a fragile life from the very start—a terrifying echo of the day I collapsed bleeding in that prison waiting room after realizing I was carrying her. Then there's school tuition due next week and rent the week after.
No job. No savings. No options.
I pulled out the card Natalie had given me. "Mirage Lounge" in silver lettering, with "Bob Johnson" and a phone number.
"They pay five hundred a night for classical performers," she'd told me yesterday. "Not the Philharmonic, but it pays cash."
I swallowed hard. For Grace. Everything for Grace. My baby needed me.
"You play beautifully," Bob said, watching me tune my violin in the back room of Mirage Lounge. "Our clients pay top dollar for class."
"Start in the main lounge," he continued. "VIP request tonight. Big spender. Regular work if he approves."
My hands trembled adjusting the strings. This wasn't my world anymore. But Grace's heart medication wouldn't pay for itself.
The lounge screamed money—crystal chandeliers, leather booths, waitstaff in crisp uniforms. I played two hours straight, Bach and Vivaldi flowing while wealthy men watched over expensive scotch.
At ten, a staff member approached. "VIP room. Follow me."
I gathered my violin and trailed him down a corridor to a private suite. My heartbeat quickened as he knocked.
"Gentlemen, your entertainment has arrived."
The door opened, and my world crashed down.
Nathan Hall—Sean's ride-or-die and Natalie's husband in their business marriage. Lucas James—Sean's college roommate, second-biggest shareholder in his company, a kid I knew from high school, and Sean's right-hand man. And there was Sean himself, back turned like I didn't exist.
Nathan smirked, recognition lighting his eyes. "Well, look who it is. The fallen princess of Little Rock."
My throat closed as Sean turned.
Six years had hardened him. Success had carved away the boy I'd loved, leaving this cold, powerful man. His eyes locked with mine, showing a flash of something—rage? pain?—before going completely empty.
"I should go," I whispered, backing toward the door.
"Stay." Lucas stood, clearly uncomfortable. "Eve, I didn't know—"
"It's fine," I cut him off. "I'm here to work." My fingers gripped my violin case tight enough to hurt.
"Sure she is," Nathan sneered. "From NBC anchor to nightclub entertainment. What's next, Eve? Begging on the subway?"
I kept my eyes down, wondering if any money was worth this humiliation. Grace's face flashed in my mind. Yes. It was.
I played Tchaikovsky, my fingers moving mechanically while my mind screamed. Six years avoiding him, and now here we were.
After twenty minutes, I packed my violin. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen."
I turned to leave.
"Stand still."
Sean's voice cut through the air. Low. Commanding.
I froze, unable to face him again.
"Mr. Winters, do you have another request?" I asked, somehow keeping my voice steady.
"You could say that."
I heard him move behind me, close enough that his cologne reached me, still the same after all these years.
"Look at me," he demanded.
I turned slowly. "What can I do for you, Mr. Winters?"
Sean's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Drink with us."
"I'm working," I said automatically.
His eyes narrowed. "I'll pay."
He grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose from the table. My stomach dropped. He remembered my allergy. Of course he did.
Sean tossed a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table. "Finish this bottle. The money's yours."
"Sean," Lucas started, "that's—"
"Stay out of it," Sean interrupted, never looking away from me.
My heart raced. I needed that money desperately. But alcohol sent me into anaphylactic shock—something Sean knew better than anyone.
"Mr. Winters, I'm allergic to alcohol," I said quietly.
His expression remained cold. "Really? I don't remember."
Liar. He drove me to the emergency room at Princeton when I accidentally drank spiked punch. Stayed all night. Promised he'd never let me near alcohol again.
I stared at the money. Three thousand would cover Grace's medication for months.
"How much?" I asked.
"Three thousand five hundred," Sean replied flatly. "One bottle. Quite the payday."
Grace's medication. Her school fees. Our overdue rent.
"Fine," I said, forcing a smile. "I'll drink."
I reached for the bottle, but Lucas grabbed my wrist. "Eve, stop. You could die."
"Lucas," Nathan snapped, "when did Sean's business with Eve become yours?"
I pulled away, uncapping the bottle. "It's okay."
The first swallow burned my throat, sending immediate panic through my body. My throat tightened, heat rushing to my face.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Winters," I managed, taking another swallow.
Sean watched, expressionless, as red welts formed on my neck and arms. Nothing remained of the man who once held me through the night in an emergency room.
By the fourth swallow, my vision blurred. Lucas yanked the bottle away.
"Enough! She's having a reaction. This is crazy."
I stumbled, grabbing the table edge. "Thank you for your generosity. I should go."
Sean didn't respond, but he didn't stop me either.
Nathan threw the money at me, bills scattering across the floor. "Here's your cash, princess."
I dropped to my knees, gathering bills with shaking hands. "Thank you, gentlemen."
Sean's polished shoe landed on the last hundred-dollar bill as I reached for it. I looked up, tears welling.
"Mr. Winters," I whispered, a tear falling onto his leather. "Please."
"Feeling sorry for yourself?" Sean asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
I shook my head. "No. Never. I deserve this."
"Do you?" His eyes bored into mine. "Those three years in prison—1,095 days—I lived exactly this way. Humiliated. Desperate. Fighting to survive."
He lifted his foot, allowing me to take the last bill. "Consider this interest on what you owe me. A birthday gift."
I clutched the money, standing unsteadily. My throat was constricting painfully.
"Happy birthday, Sean," I whispered, grabbing my violin case.
At the door, Sean's voice stopped me. "The necklace. Take it off."
My hand touched the silver ring on my neck. "I—I can't."
"It's mine," he said flatly.
I shook my head, backing away. "I've worn it six years. Please, just let me keep this one thing."
"Get out," Sean snapped. "Get out before I take more than just what's mine."
I fled, money in one hand, violin in the other. Behind me, glass shattered against a wall.
The apartment was dark when I stumbled in, still fighting the alcohol's effects. I'd thrown up twice on the way home and swallowed antihistamines that weren't strong enough.
"Grace?" I called, turning on lights. "Mommy's home, sweetie."
No answer.
Panic shot through me. "Grace!"
I rushed to her bedroom. She lay curled up, face flushed with fever.
"Mommy," she whimpered, her small voice weak. "My chest really hurts."
I touched her forehead. Burning hot. Her lips had that bluish tinge I'd learned to fear.
"It's okay, baby," I said, lifting her small body. "We're going to the hospital."
Outside, rain poured. No cabs. No cars. My phone dead.
I wrapped Grace in her blanket and ran down the street, her body heavy in my arms. Rain soaked us both as I screamed at passing cars.
"Please! My daughter needs help!"
Cars sped past, splashing dirty water over us.
"Please! Anyone! She needs a hospital!"
But no car stopped for us. None. My heart shattered as I watched each vehicle disappear into the distance, carrying away my last fragments of hope. The weight of helplessness crushed my chest, making it hard to breathe.