His Unwanted Wife Is A Dying Genius

Dr. Evans pushed the biopsy report across the cold metal surface of the desk. His face was heavy, the lines around his mouth pulled tight. The document slid toward Aretha, stopping just inches from her hands. A red, highly confidential stamp glared at her from the top right corner. Aretha's eyes dropped to the bottom of the page. The words blurred for a second before snapping into a brutal, undeniable focus. Advanced gastric cancer. Accompanied by rare organ failure. "The cancer cells are spreading at an unnatural rate," Dr. Evans said, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "And there is a bizarre, total collapse of your immune system happening simultaneously." A violent cramp seized Aretha's stomach. It wasn't a dull ache. It was a physical twisting of her organs, forcing her to grip the leather armrests of her chair until her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. "We need to admit you immediately," Dr. Evans continued, leaning forward. "Aggressive targeted therapy is our only option to try and extend your life." Aretha slowly shook her head. Her face was entirely drained of color. A bitter, hollow smile touched her lips. She knew enough about biology to understand that with this level of systemic failure, current medical treatments would only offer her a few more months of agonizing, bedridden torture. Her fingers trembled as she picked up the report. It was the piece of paper that dictated she only had ninety days left to breathe. She folded it. Once. Twice. Her movements were slow, entirely mechanical, as she tucked it deep into the hidden compartment of her Hermes handbag. Aretha stood up and pushed open the heavy oak door of the consultation room. The biting, early winter wind of Manhattan seeped through the hallway windows, sliding down her collar and freezing the sweat on her neck. She stood alone in front of the elevator banks. The polished metal doors reflected her face-pale, hollowed out, looking like a ghost that hadn't quite realized it was dead yet. A massive, suffocating sense of absurdity washed over her. Suddenly, her handbag vibrated. A shrill, sharp ringtone shattered the dead silence of the clinic hallway. Aretha pulled her phone out. The screen flashed with the name of her husband: Anders Bartlett. She took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in her lungs, and swiped to answer. "Where the hell are you?" Anders's voice barked through the speaker. Cold. Impatient. There was no question about her doctor's appointment. No concern for the physical she told him she was having today. "Do you have any idea how much of a joke you made this family look like today?" Anders demanded, his tone dripping with disgust. "Skipping Kelli's yacht birthday party? Really, Aretha?" Through the receiver, Aretha could hear the loud, thumping bass of the yacht party in the background. She could hear the clinking of champagne glasses. And then, she heard Kelli's soft, fake voice whining in the background. Anders, don't yell at her, it's my fault. The twisting pain in Aretha's stomach doubled down, making her double over slightly. "Log into your social media right now," Anders ordered. "Post a public apology to Kelli. Make it sound sincere." Aretha didn't say a word. For the past three years, she would have immediately apologized. She would have lowered her voice, begged for his understanding, and done exactly what he asked just to keep the peace. Instead, a dead, five-second silence stretched between them. "Aretha." Anders's voice rose an octave, deeply offended by her lack of response. "Do not test my patience today." Aretha looked down at her open bag. The edge of her terminal diagnosis report was barely visible. A soft, breathy laugh escaped her lips. The sound made Anders freeze on the other end of the line. The silence was quickly replaced by a surging, arrogant anger. "Are you laughing?" "Anders," Aretha said. Her voice was an absolute zero. Ice cold and completely foreign to her own ears. "Do you even remember that today is my twenty-sixth birthday?" The line went dead quiet. A brief, heavy stutter in Anders's breathing gave him away. He had completely forgotten. To cover up his sudden guilt, his anger flared hotter. "You are unbelievably petty," he snapped. "Are you seriously jealous of a sister who suffers from severe depression?" Depression. The moment she heard that word, the last ounce of warmth in Aretha's eyes vanished. That word had been the shackle around her neck for years, forcing her to yield to Kelli's every whim. She didn't say another word. Aretha pulled the phone away from her ear and pressed the red button, cutting off Anders's endless lecturing. She powered the phone down completely. The elevator arrived with a soft ding. She stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, heading straight for the Metropolitan Bank. Twenty minutes later, inside the highly secure, private VIP vault of the bank, Aretha placed the folded biopsy report into the highest-tier safety deposit box. The heavy metal door of the box clicked shut, locking away her death sentence. With that single click, the timid, people-pleasing woman she had been for the last six years died. Aretha pulled a tube of deep red lipstick from her bag. She stood in front of the vault's mirror and carefully applied it, masking the sickly pallor of her lips. She slipped on her dark sunglasses, walked out of the bank's revolving doors, and hailed a yellow cab. "Hines Estate, Long Island," she told the driver, her voice steady and hard. She was going back to settle everything.