From Blood Bag To Billionaire Queen

The morning sun hit the grey stone of the Family Court building, but it offered no warmth. Aleigha stood near one of the massive pillars, shivering in her thin black blazer. It was a cheap suit from Zara, one of the few things she had bought with her own allowance money, but it fit her frame perfectly. Her head swam. The world tilted slightly to the left. She was anemic. Chronic anemia, induced by three years of "emergency" donations. Her body was running on fumes. She leaned her shoulder against the cold stone, closing her eyes, willing the black spots in her vision to fade. A low hum of an engine approached. A sleek, black Maybach pulled up to the curb. It was aggressive, taking up too much space, demanding attention. The back door opened. Bart Brown stepped out. He looked impeccable. His navy suit was custom Italian wool, not a wrinkle in sight. His hair was gelled back, his jawline sharp. He looked like a man who owned the world. He adjusted his cuffs, his eyes scanning the sidewalk until they landed on her. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask how she was. He marched up the steps, his face twisted in a scowl of annoyance. "Why the hell didn't you answer your phone last night?" His voice was a bark. He stopped two feet in front of her, towering over her. "Crysta waited all night. Do you have any idea how selfish you are?" Aleigha opened her eyes. She looked up at him. For years, this face had been her sun. She had revolved around his moods, his needs, his rare, crumbs of approval. Now, looking at him, she felt... nothing. Just a hollow, echoing silence where her love used to be. She didn't answer. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out the folder. "Let's go inside," she said. Her voice was flat. "Don't waste my time." Bart blinked. He looked at the folder, then back at her face. He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You're actually doing this?" He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Dewitt told me you filed an emergency motion. How did you even afford the filing fee, let alone get a slot this fast? Did you sell the earrings I bought you for Christmas?" "Inside," she repeated, turning her back on him. She walked through the revolving doors. Bart followed, his footsteps heavy and angry behind her. He was convinced this was a desperate, expensive stunt funded by pawning off his gifts. In the mediation room, the air smelled of stale coffee and floor wax. Dewitt Hartman was already there. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a stack of documents in front of him. Dewitt was Bart's longtime friend and corporate counsel. But as Aleigha entered, Dewitt stood up. He buttoned his jacket. He gave her a nod-a small, almost imperceptible tilt of the head that carried a weight of respect Bart didn't notice. "Sit down," Bart commanded, pulling out a chair for himself but leaving hers pushed in. Aleigha sat. She slid the papers across the polished wood. "I've waived alimony," she said. "I've waived claim to the property. I've waived spousal support. I just want the dissolution. Effective immediately." Bart picked up the document. He scanned it, his eyebrows knitting together. He had expected a fight. He had expected her to ask for millions. He had prepared a speech about how she deserved nothing because she came from nothing. But she was asking for... nothing. It annoyed him. It felt like she was cheating at a game he was supposed to win. "So that's it?" Bart sneered, tossing the paper back onto the table. "You're trying to guilt-trip me? Playing the martyr? 'Oh, look at me, leaving with nothing so Bart feels bad'?" He leaned forward, his eyes cold. "It won't work. If you want me to coax you back home, you need to try harder." Aleigha looked at his hands. She remembered how those hands used to feel warm. Now they just looked like claws. "Bart," she said softly. "Sign the paper. From this moment on, whether I live or die is none of your business." The words hung in the air. Bart felt a prick of irritation in his chest. Her eyes were dead. There was no fire, no tears, no pleading. Just a void. "Fine," he snapped. "If you want to be a homeless divorcée, be my guest." He grabbed the fountain pen Dewitt offered. He slashed his signature across the bottom line. The nib tore the paper slightly. Bart Brown. It was done. Bart threw the pen down. He stood up, checking his Rolex. "Right. Now that the drama is over, let's go." Aleigha looked up, confused. "Go where?" "The hospital," Bart said, as if talking to a slow child. "Crysta's surgery is scheduled for noon. We need to bank the blood now." He reached for her arm. "Come on. My car is outside." He actually believed it. He believed that the legal end of their marriage changed nothing about her servitude. He believed he still owned her blood. Aleigha stood up. She smoothed the lapels of her cheap blazer. A small, dark laugh bubbled up from her throat. It sounded foreign to her own ears. "Mr. Brown," she said. Bart froze. He frowned. "What did you call me?" "You seem to have forgotten something," Aleigha said. She took a step back, putting the table between them. "The person I was obligated to protect was your wife. She doesn't exist anymore." "Aleigha, stop it," Bart warned, his voice dropping an octave. "Stop playing hard to get. How much do you want? Five hundred thousand? A million? Just name a price. I know you're broke." Aleigha tilted her head. She looked at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. "My blood," she whispered, "is something you couldn't afford if you sold your entire company." She turned on her heel. Bart lunged. "Don't you walk away from me!" He grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, bruising. Aleigha reacted instantly. She ripped her arm away with a violence that startled him. She scrubbed the skin where he had touched her, as if wiping off slime. "Don't touch me," she hissed. Her eyes flashed with a sudden, terrifying intensity. "I find it disgusting." Bart recoiled. He stood frozen, his hand still suspended in the air. He had never heard her speak like that. It was like a stranger had occupied her body. Aleigha didn't wait. She pushed through the heavy wooden doors, walking out into the hallway. Sunlight hit her face as she exited the building. Her knees buckled slightly. She was weak, dizzy, and hungry. But her chest felt lighter than it had in years. She hailed a yellow taxi. "St. Luke's Hospital," she told the driver. She wasn't going to give blood. She was going to deliver a message. As the taxi pulled away, she let herself cry. One single tear tracked through the cheap foundation on her cheek. It was the last tear she would shed for the past. On the sidewalk, Bart watched the taxi disappear into traffic. His chest felt tight. A strange, vibrating anxiety hummed under his skin. His assistant, Cole, stepped up beside him, holding a tablet. "Boss? Should I have the driver follow her to the hospital?" Bart clenched his jaw. "No. She's going there anyway. She'll realize she has nowhere else to go. Once she's broke and hungry, she'll come crawling back." But as he said it, the words tasted like ash in his mouth.