The Girl He Left Behind Chapter 18

The Girl He Left Behind Chapter 18

More and more people came forward. Evan was done.

Coincidentally, he had a younger brother.

The Sterlings cut their losses and pivoted to their backup kid.

Cut off from his family, Evan crashed hard. He drank himself into oblivion every day.

He’d always loved alcohol—and I used to beg him to cut down, which annoyed him no end.

Now it was his undoing.

One night, drunk off his face, he stumbled into oncoming traffic.

He survived. But his leg was shattered.

The doctor said he would be lame for the rest of his life.

Later, the traffic police checked the surveillance.

Evan had run a red light and jaywalked. The driver bore no responsibility.

A few days later, I had unexpected visitors.

Evan’s parents.

I knew them—we’d met plenty of times before.

Smiling assassins, both of them.

They’d always looked down on me for my background, and they’d

—

helped Evan stage the whole farce.

Now they were begging me.

“Iris, I know I’ve been good to you, right?”

I smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve given Evan a proper scolding. But you see, his father and I—and our company—we’re innocent here.”

“You want me to…?”

“Write a letter of forgiveness. Say you’re over it. You won’t pursue it anymore.”

I wanted to laugh. How dare you voice such a request?

But I had a plan.

I sniffled. Within seconds, my eyes brimmed with tears.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, I know you’ve been kind to me. I don’t want to drag you down either.”

“But what Evan did was so painful! I’ve been having nightmares every night. My friends are telling me to see a therapist!”

Tears flowed like they cost nothing.

“I’m so hurt, so devastated! I loved him so much—how could he do this to me?”

“Yes, yes, we understand. Evan was wrong.” They exchanged glances.

“Iris, how about we compensate you? How much do you want?”

—

I waved my hands in horror. “No, no! I can’t take money.”

If I named a price, that’d be extortion.

“Twenty thousand?”

“Money can’t fix this.”

“Forty?”

“Mrs. Sterling, my feelings for Evan can’t be measured in money!”

“Fifty!”

I sighed. “I think I’d better see that therapist.”

I refused to name a number. I just kept saying my mental health was destroyed.

A day later, a million dollars appeared in my bank account.

With a memo: Voluntary Compensation for Mental Distress.