His Unwanted Wife Is A Dying Genius

High above the streets of Manhattan, inside the top-floor executive office of the Bartlett Group, Anders stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He stared down at Central Park, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. His fist was clenched tight, crushing a crumpled copy of the divorce agreement. The sickening feeling of losing control was crawling up his throat. Anders slammed his hand down on the intercom button. "Marcus. Get in here." Seconds later, his personal assistant, Marcus Thorne, pushed the door open. Marcus kept his head down, immediately sensing the suffocating pressure in the room. "Cancel every single supplementary credit card under Aretha's name," Anders ordered, his voice cold and lethal. "Freeze her Centurion Card. Block her access to the family fund accounts. Do it right now." Anders sneered at his own reflection in the glass. Aretha had grown used to luxury. The second she realized she couldn't buy a meal or book a hotel, she would come crawling back on her knees within three days. "Right away, sir," Marcus said, quickly backing out of the office to execute the orders. Ten minutes later, Marcus burst back into the office. He didn't even knock. He was sweating profusely, his eyes wide with panic. Anders scowled. "Are the cards frozen?" "Sir..." Marcus stammered, swallowing hard. "I contacted the banks. The supplementary cards and the black card... she hasn't swiped them a single time in the last three years." Anders froze. His mind short-circuited. He had always assumed she was using his money to fund her life. She hadn't touched a dime? Marcus took a shaky breath and delivered the fatal blow. "And sir... she didn't just ignore your cards. An hour ago, Aretha transferred and liquidated every single asset under her personal, pre-marital accounts. Her balance is zero." Anders spun around so fast he nearly snapped the expensive fountain pen in his hand. A wave of pure, terrifying panic gripped his lungs. She wasn't throwing a tantrum. She was erasing herself from his world. "Call everyone," Anders snarled, his eyes wild. "Call every socialite, every hotel owner, every contact in New York. If anyone gives her a place to stay or a dollar to spend, they answer to me!" Miles away, on the gritty edges of Brooklyn, the sky opened up. A freezing winter rain began to pour, dropping the temperature drastically. Aretha dragged her exhausted, failing body down the muddy, cracked sidewalk. She stopped in front of a familiar, weathered brownstone building. This was the Finch family's old home. Before she was dragged back into the billionaire lifestyle six years ago, this was where she had spent the happiest days of her life. Looking at the chipped paint on the wooden front door, the tightly wound string holding Aretha's sanity together finally snapped. The moment her adrenaline dropped, the painkillers wore off. The cancer-like agony in her stomach surged back like a tidal wave. Aretha's face drained to the color of wet chalk. Cold sweat instantly soaked through her thin shirt, sticking to her spine like a layer of ice. Her hand trembled violently as she reached for the doorbell. But her vision was already swimming with dark spots. Her fingers had no strength left. A massive, tearing cramp hit her gut. Her legs gave out completely. Aretha lost her balance and collapsed heavily onto the cold, wet, red brick steps. She curled into a tight ball, pressing both hands hard against her stomach. A low, agonizing whimper tore from her throat as the darkness rushed in to swallow her consciousness. Just as her eyes rolled back, the chipped wooden door suddenly swung open from the inside. Alistair Finch, her adoptive father, stepped out wearing a faded wool sweater, holding a trash bag. He jumped back, startled by the dark shape huddled on his steps. Alistair squinted through the freezing rain and the dim light of the streetlamp. When he recognized the pale, lifeless face of the girl on the ground, his eyes widened in absolute horror. The trash bag dropped from his hand. Empty soda cans clattered loudly against the pavement. "Ari!" Alistair screamed, a sound of pure, heart-wrenching terror. He threw himself down the steps, ignoring the mud. His large, calloused hands shook violently as he gathered her freezing body into his arms. "Eleonora!" Alistair roared toward the inside of the house. "Eleonora, help me!" In the middle of the freezing storm, the old, chipped door of the Finch house became her final sanctuary, shutting out the rain and the ruthless hunt of the Bartlett empire.