His Unwanted Wife Is A Dying Genius

Aretha's heavy eyelids fluttered open. The first thing that hit her senses was the deep, comforting scent of lavender laundry detergent. Her vision slowly focused. She was lying in a small, narrow twin bed, covered by a thick, handmade patchwork quilt. A warm, yellow glow came from the small lamp on the nightstand. The wallpaper was slightly yellowed with age, but the room was spotless. The door hinges let out a soft squeak. Eleonora, her adoptive mother, walked in carrying a steaming tray. When Eleonora saw Aretha's open eyes, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes instantly filled with tears, her lower lip trembling. Eleonora quickly set the tray down on the small desk and rushed to the side of the bed. She reached out with rough, warm hands and gently cupped Aretha's pale face. She didn't ask why Aretha was found passed out in the freezing rain. She didn't ask about the Bartletts or the Hines. Eleonora just leaned down, her voice thick with emotion, and whispered, "Welcome home, my little Ari." Those six simple words completely shattered the emotional fortress Aretha had built over the last six years. A violent ache gripped her throat. Her nose burned. A single, hot tear slipped from the corner of her eye and soaked into the cotton pillowcase. It was the first real tear she had shed since the doctor handed her the death sentence. Heavy footsteps thumped against the floorboards outside. Alistair walked into the room, looking awkward and massive in the small space. He was holding a mug of warm honey water. He gruffly shoved the mug into Aretha's hands, his broad shoulders blocking the draft from the window. "This door is always open for you," Alistair said, his voice thick and protective. "As long as I'm breathing, nobody is going to bully my daughter ever again." Looking at these two people who loved her without conditions, without caring about her bank account or her status, Aretha felt a profound, soul-deep salvation. Eleonora picked up a bowl of hot chicken soup from the tray and carefully fed it to Aretha. The warm broth coated her stomach, slightly easing the violent cramps. Just as the warmth began to settle in her bones, a sharp, piercing text message tone rang out. It came from her phone, which was plugged into a charger on the nightstand. Aretha's eyes flickered. Her gut told her exactly who it was. Eleonora gently handed her the phone, then pulled Alistair by the sleeve, giving Aretha some privacy as they stepped out of the room. Aretha leaned back against the headboard and swiped the screen open. It was a multimedia message from Kelli. The photo loaded. Kelli was wearing one of Aretha's expensive silk nightgowns. She was holding a glass of Romanée-Conti wine. Kelli's body was pressed intimately against Anders's chest. Anders's arms weren't wrapped around her, but he wasn't pushing her away either. Beneath the photo was a sickeningly sweet text: Since my big sister isn't home, I guess I'll have to take care of Anders tonight. If this were the old Aretha, seeing this photo would have made her physically sick. She would have been shaking with rage, unable to sleep for days. But now? Aretha stared at the screen, looking at the two of them posing like cheap actors. She felt absolutely nothing. In fact, it was almost comical. She didn't type out a furious reply. She didn't call Anders to scream at him. They weren't worth a single second of her remaining ninety days. With a few quick taps of her thumb, Aretha blocked Kelli's number. She went to Anders's contact and blocked him too. She switched the phone to silent and tossed it carelessly toward the foot of the bed. Aretha slid back down under the warm patchwork quilt. She stared up at the faint water stain on the ceiling and made a silent promise to herself. She was going to hide her illness. She would spend her final days right here, in the quiet warmth of the Finch house. Outside, the Brooklyn rain finally stopped. Surrounded by the scent of lavender, Aretha closed her eyes and fell into her first dreamless sleep in months.