The Girl He Ruined

Evelyn's Pov:

My alarm started buzzing at six sharp and I killed it before it even finished the first note.

I just lay there for a second, eyes closed, letting the quiet sink in.

The silence felt different this morning. Heavier. More important. Like the universe was holding its breath right along with me.

Then I opened them and the biggest, stupidest grin spread across my face.

Because today was the first day of the rest of my life and I already knew it.

I rolled over and stared at the ceiling crack that looks like a lightning bolt.

I used to hate that crack. Used to lie here freshman year counting the minutes until I could leave this dorm, this campus, this life.

Counting down the days until I could escape back to someplace that felt like home, even if home was falling apart at the seams.

Now it felt like a good-luck charm. My own personal constellation.

A reminder that I survived every single night under this ceiling, every panic attack before finals, every moment I thought I couldn't make it one more day.

Eight weeks.

Eight tiny weeks and that crack would be someone else's problem.

Some other scholarship kid would move in here and stare at it and wonder if they made the right choice.

And I would be long gone, living a life I used to dream about in the dark.

In case you are just meeting me, hi.

My name is Evelyn Harper.

Twenty-two years old.

Final-year finance major at Crestwood University.

Full-ride scholarship kid from a nowhere town in upstate New York where the biggest employer is a paper mill that closed when I was twelve.

The kind of town where everyone knows your business and nobody expects you to leave.

Where guidance counselors look at girls like me and suggest community college or maybe nursing school if we are really ambitious.

Where dreams go to die quietly in double-wide trailers and third-shift factory jobs.

But not me.

Not anymore.

I am eight weeks away from never having to count pennies again.

I reached for my phone and the screen lit up with three notifications that still felt fake.

Even though I had read them approximately seven hundred times since yesterday afternoon.

Even though I had taken screenshots and texted them to everyone I knew.

Even though I had printed them out and tucked them under my pillow like a kid with a tooth fairy dollar.

Goldman Sachs – Offer Packet (Final)

McKinsey & Company – Congratulations, Evelyn Harper!

Delaware & Pierce – We are thrilled to extend…

I actually squealed out loud.

Like full-on teenage-girl squeal in an empty dorm room at six-oh-two in the morning.

The kind of sound I never let myself make anymore because I spent four years being serious and professional and buttoned-up.

But right now, alone in my room with three job offers from companies that usually only hire Ivy League kids with trust funds, I let myself sound like the girl I used to be.

I kicked off my covers and did a ridiculous little victory dance in my socks and oversized T-shirt.

Spinning in circles.

Punching the air.

Doing some kind of move that was half salsa, half seizure, one hundred percent joy.

My reflection in the dark window looked insane, curls everywhere, eyes shining, cheeks already hurting from smiling.

I looked wild.

Free.

Like someone who just found out the universe was on her side after all.

I opened the window and let the January air slap me awake.

Cold burned my lungs in the best way.

Campus was still asleep under a thin blanket of snow.

Red brick buildings looking like they stepped out of a postcard.

Ivy frozen on the walls, glittering in the pre-dawn light.

Clock tower glowing soft gold against the dark blue sky.

Everything looked sharper this morning.

More real.

Like someone turned up the saturation on my whole life.

I whispered to the empty quad like it could hear me.

"I did it."

Then louder, because why the hell not.

"I actually did it!"

My voice echoed off the buildings and I didn't even care who heard me.

My phone rang.

Mom.

Of course it was Mom.

She probably set her own alarm just to call me at exactly six oh-five, the second she thought I might be awake.

I answered on the first ring.

"Baby girl!" she screamed before I even said hello.

"Tell me again about the money! I need to hear it one more time before I believe it!"

I laughed so hard I had to sit on the floor.

Back against the radiator, phone pressed to my ear, grinning like an idiot.

"Signing bonus, Mama. Seventy-five thousand dollars. Just for signing my name."

I heard her sharp intake of breath.

The way she does when she's trying not to cry but failing.

Silence.

Then the happiest sob I have ever heard in my life.

"Oh my Lord, Evelyn. My baby is going to be rich."

"Not rich," I corrected gently, even though my heart was about to burst.

"Safe. We are going to be safe."

And that was the thing, wasn't it?

Not rich.

Safe.

Safe from the electricity getting shut off in February.

Safe from choosing between groceries and medication.

Safe from the kind of tired that settles into your bones when you work two jobs and still can't make rent.

I could hear her crying in the background, the good kind of crying.

The kind that happens when the electric company stops calling and the hospital finally leaves you alone.

The kind that happens when your daughter tells you she's bringing home more money than you've seen in your entire life.

Tommy, my little brother, grabbed the phone.

He is sixteen and all attitude, all the time.

Voice cracking between man and boy.

"Does this mean I get a car now, sis?"

I rolled my eyes even though he couldn't see me.

"College first, brat. You got two more years to survive high school and then we talk."

"But like, a nice car though, right? Not another beater from Jerry's lot?"

"College first, brat," I said again, but I was grinning so wide my face hurt.

Already mentally calculating how much I could save for his tuition.

How I could make sure he never has to choose between textbooks and eating.

How I could give him the shot I never had.

Mom came back on, voice wobbly.

"You coming home for spring break?"

"Flying both of you here," I told her, and just saying it out loud made it more real.

"First class. We are doing graduation weekend right. Hotel, fancy dinner, the whole thing."

The kind of restaurant with cloth napkins and waiters who refill your water without asking.

The kind of place we used to walk past and peek in the windows, pretending we belonged.

More tears.

More promises.

More plans tumbling out of both of us like we were scared if we stopped talking, the magic would disappear.

When we hung up I just sat on the carpet hugging my knees, staring at the three cream envelopes on my desk like they might disappear if I blinked.

Heavy paper.

Embossed logos.

The kind of envelopes that meant business.

That meant arrival.

I opened the Delaware & Pierce one again just to feel the paper.

Thick.

Expensive.

The kind of paper that whispered money.

My name in gold lettering.

Evelyn Marie Harper.

Starting salary one hundred eighty-five thousand plus bonus.

Relocation package to Manhattan.

Health insurance that actually covers dental and vision and therapy if I ever need it.

Retirement matching.

Stock options.

Words that used to feel like a foreign language.

I squealed again, louder this time.

Pressed the letter to my chest like it might absorb into my skin.

Like I could become this version of myself through osmosis.

I took the longest shower of my life.

Used every drop of hot water in the dorm.

Sang every song I knew off-key, voice bouncing off the tile.

Beyoncé and Lizzo and that one Taylor Swift song about everything working out.

Used the fancy vanilla conditioner I usually save for interviews.

Let it sit for a full five minutes, breathing in the sweet smell.

Today deserved fancy conditioner.

Today deserved everything.

I blew out my curls until they fell in big soft waves.

Each section carefully smoothed until my hair looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial.

Put on my favorite high-waisted jeans that make my legs look a mile long.

The cream sweater that makes me look soft and expensive at the same time.

Cashmere blend I found at a thrift store and nearly cried over.

Light makeup that took twenty minutes but looked effortless.

Vanilla lip gloss that tastes like dessert.

Gold hoops my grandmother gave me before she passed.

I looked in the mirror and actually thought, d*mn, girl.

You look like money.

Like someone who was born into this instead of someone who clawed her way here.

Like someone who belongs in corner offices and boardrooms.

Like the woman I was always supposed to become.

I grabbed my coat, my backpack, the three golden envelopes because I couldn't bear to leave them behind, and floated down the stairs.

Literally floated.

My feet barely touched the ground.

The dining hall was almost empty this early.

Just a few athletes and the truly dedicated pre-med students clutching coffee like lifelines.

I swiped my meal card and loaded my tray like a kid on Christmas morning.

Scrambled eggs, fluffy and buttery.

Crispy bacon that crunched perfectly.

Pancakes drowning in syrup, the good kind that actually tastes like maple.

Hash browns, golden and crispy at the edges.

Sausage links.

The biggest coffee they had with extra cream and three sugars.

A celebration feast.

The breakfast of champions.

I sat by the window and ate slowly, tasting every single bite.

Savoring it.

Making it last.

No more choosing between groceries and printer paper.

No more plain oatmeal for dinner three nights a week because it was cheapest.

No more calculating every single purchase down to the penny.

Freedom tasted like pancakes and possibility.

My phone kept buzzing.

Study group chat exploded with messages.

queen you actually did it

they are fighting over you fr

delaware literally called ME asking for your personal email i'm screaming

how does it feel to be THAT girl

My little cousin texted, all caps and exclamation points.

auntie said you buying her a house now??

send pics of the offers i need to see

PLEASE tell me you're taking me to new york

Another unknown number with a 212 area code.

Miss Harper, we would love to fly you to New York next week.

Private tour of the trading floor plus dinner at Le Bernardin.

Let us know your availability.

Le Bernardin.

I Googled it right there at the breakfast table.

Three Michelin stars.

Tasting menu starts at two hundred dollars.

Per person.

I just kept smiling and eating my pancakes like a princess.

Like someone who eats at three-star restaurants all the time.

Like this was just the beginning.

Outside the sky turned pink and gold and perfect.

Watercolor sunrise painting the quad in shades of hope.

I finished my coffee, packed up my things, left my tray for the work-study kids because I used to be them and I always bus my table now.

I stepped into the cold and tilted my face up to the sky.

The wind played with my curls and I felt light enough to fly.

Light enough to float right off this campus and into the life I always knew I deserved.

Eight weeks.

Eight weeks and I walk across that stage in my cap and gown and the world finally has to admit Evelyn Harper belongs.

That the girl from nowhere is going somewhere.

That hard work and late nights and believing in yourself even when nobody else does actually means something.

Nothing could touch me right now.

Nothing.

The future was mine and I was ready to take it with both hands.

Sebastian’s Pov:

I was never supposed to come back to Crestwood.

London had everything I needed.

Everything I wanted.

Everything that made sense for someone like me.

Clubs that never closed, where the music pounded until dawn and nobody cared who you were as long as your card didn't decline.

Girls who knew the rules and never asked for more than a night.

Beautiful girls with accents that made everything sound like poetry, who understood that morning meant goodbye and never texted asking where this was going.

Mornings that started at three with champagne on someone else's yacht and nobody expecting me to be anywhere.

Afternoons that blurred into evenings in Michelin-starred restaurants where the waiters knew my name and my usual table.

No responsibilities.

No expectations.

No Grandfather breathing down my neck about legacy and duty and the Whitmore name.

Just freedom and excess and the kind of life people w