Chapter 4 4

The Last Goodbye

Evelyn's POV

Guilt is a heavy thing.

It doesn't sit in one place. It moves through your veins, your breath, your thoughts-always finding new ways to suffocate you.

Some mornings, it settled behind my ribs like a second heartbeat. Other times, it pressed against my temples until my head throbbed.

Today, it weighed on my shoulders like chains.

My father was dying. That truth had anchored itself in my mind, and no amount of denial could drown it. The man who built a legacy out of grit and ambition-who ruled boardrooms like empires-couldn't even lift a spoon without help now.

And I... I was to inherit everything.

Monroe Enterprises.

Seven branches, four continents, billions in assets and thousands of employees.

All of it resting on my shoulders. On a daughter who wasn't sure she even wanted it.

Not because I wasn't capable-but because I wasn't whole.

Because the empire came wrapped in grief, betrayal, and secrets. My unborn child, my fake engagement and worst of all... Henry Desmond.

The name burned every time it surfaced in my mind.

And lately, it always did.

Especially today, as I sat in the backseat of my car, staring out at the skyline my father helped shape.

Every building reminded me of him. Every billboard with our company logo felt like a spotlight I didn't want.

I pressed my hand gently over my stomach. My child moved beneath my palm, and my eyes stung.

They would never meet their grandfather.

And they would never know their father.

Unless I told them.

Unless I found the strength to say the name that still haunted me.

Henry.

The memory came uninvited-like a ghost slipping into my thoughts. But I didn't fight it.

I let it take me back.

To his last day with me.

It had been three months ago.

A warm Sunday morning. The city was quiet, wrapped in that rare stillness that only came between late spring and early summer.

I woke up wrapped in sheets, sunlight spilling through the windows. And next to me-Henry.

He was lying on his side, shirtless, one hand beneath his cheek. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm. Peaceful and safe.

I remembered thinking: Maybe this is it. Maybe I finally found someone who sees me-not just the last name.

I reached out, touched his hair, and whispered, "You're too good to be true."

He opened one eye and smiled, sleep-drunk and beautiful. "That's because I'm still dreaming."

I laughed, and he pulled me close, kissing my forehead like he always did after teasing me.

That morning, we didn't rush. We cooked together-he burned the eggs, I spilled the orange juice. We danced barefoot in the kitchen to old jazz tunes.

He said I had two left feet. I told him he had no taste in music. We laughed until my stomach hurt.

It felt like something real.

It felt like a beginning.

We spent the afternoon lying on the rooftop patio of my house, looking up at the clouds. He talked about visiting the Amalfi Coast. I talked about my father's health, the looming will, the pressure I didn't feel ready for.

He didn't flinch.

"I'll be here," he said. "You don't have to do this alone."

I remembered the way his hand tightened around mine.

I remembered how he kissed the inside of my wrist and whispered, "I've got you."

And I-God help me-I believed him.

That night, we made love like it meant something.

Like it would last.

Like there was a future waiting just beyond the skyline.

I fell asleep with my head on his chest, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat.

But the next morning... he was gone.

No note, no call and no goodbye.

Just silence.

His side of the bed was cold. His phone disconnected. His email vanished. All his accounts-erased like they never existed.

I searched everywhere.

I called hospitals, airports, even hired investigators. No one could find a trace of him.

The man I loved disappeared like a ghost.

And all he left behind... was this child inside me.

I blinked back to the present as the car slowed in front of the hospital. The driver opened the door, and I stepped out into the gray morning.

My legs felt heavy as I made my way through the corridors. Nurses nodded politely, doctors offered tight smiles.

Everyone knew who I was. Evelyn Monroe-the heiress. The perfect daughter. The next CEO.

Not one of them saw the grief under my skin.

My father was sleeping when I entered. Machines beeped gently beside him, charting time we didn't have.

I sat beside his bed, taking his hand.

"Hi, Dad."

His eyes fluttered open.

"Evelyn..." His voice was a whisper now, a breeze barely holding form.

"I'm here," I said, smiling through the ache.

He studied me for a long time, his eyes tired but alert.

"You're wearing that look again," he murmured.

"What look?"

"The one your mother used to wear when she was hiding pain."

I inhaled sharply.

"You don't have to carry everything alone," he added.

My eyes filled. "But I do. You gave me the keys to the kingdom, Dad. I'm trying not to drop them."

He laughed softly, a rasping sound. "You won't. You never have."

I wanted to believe him.

But the guilt gnawed at me.

I wanted to tell him about the baby. About Henry. About everything I'd buried under the blouses and confident speeches.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

Instead, I kissed his hand. "Rest now. I'll handle the empire."

He closed his eyes with a contented sigh.

But I sat there long after he fell asleep, heart hammering against my ribs.

Because no matter how much I tried to forget... Henry's name was always just one thought away.

That night, I returned home and stood in the middle of my room, staring at nothing.

The silence was suffocating.

I poured myself a glass of wine, then stopped, set it down and touched my stomach again.

"I miss him," I whispered.

I don't know if I was talking to myself or the child. Maybe both.

I walked into my bedroom and opened the drawer I'd hidden from everyone.

Inside was a photo. A printed screenshot of Henry smiling during a video call. His eyes crinkled at the edges. That stupid lopsided grin.

I traced the edge of the photo with a shaking finger.

"You lied to me," I whispered.

Or maybe he didn't.

Maybe the lie was mine-for believing love could ever come without cost.

But still... I needed answers.

I couldn't raise this child wondering where their father went, or why he left. I couldn't live my life haunted by memories of rooftop kisses and empty beds.

I needed closure.

And if I couldn't find it...

I would make it.

The next day, I pulled out the file my investigator had compiled months ago.

He'd found traces-fragments, really. Nothing solid. But a few leads. An offshore bank account linked to a Henry D. Desmond.

A shell company in Dubai. An encrypted phone line in Paris. All faint trails.

But I was done sitting still.

I had the means. I had the reason.

If Henry thought he could vanish, he underestimated the woman he left behind.

Because Evelyn Monroe wasn't just a broken heart anymore.

She owned an empire now.

Soon to a mother.

And a storm waiting to be unleashed.