The heavy carpet of the second-floor landing muffled Aretha's footsteps as she reached the blind spot behind the antique grandfather clock.

Kelli hurried up the last few steps, cutting Aretha off and blocking her path to the bedroom hallway.

Kelli glanced around. Confirming there were no guests or servants in sight, the innocent, teary-eyed mask melted off her face.

A cruel, mocking smirk twisted Kelli's lips.

Kelli stepped into Aretha's personal space, dropping her voice to a venomous whisper. "You really are pathetic, Ari. A useless replacement nobody wants. Even your own biological parents are disgusted by you."

Kelli tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "And Anders? His heart has always been with me. You're just a placeholder taking up space."

Aretha stared at the twisted jealousy on Kelli's face.

Her heart didn't race. Her chest didn't tighten. She felt absolutely nothing. It was just sad to watch.

Aretha didn't scream. She didn't raise her hand to slap her back. She just looked at Kelli like she was looking at a piece of trash on the sidewalk.

"Move," Aretha said, her voice dead flat. She stepped to the side, trying to walk around her.

Kelli saw that her taunts weren't working. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement near the front doors downstairs.

Kelli's strategy shifted instantly.

She let out a piercing, dramatic scream. She threw her hands up in the air, flailing wildly as if she had just been violently shoved in the chest.

Without a second of hesitation, Kelli threw her body backward.

She tumbled down the carpeted mahogany stairs, rolling over and over until she hit the landing.

The heavy front doors of the estate swung open at that exact moment.

Anders Bartlett and Cornelius Hines, Aretha's father, walked into the foyer.

They both looked up just in time to see Kelli rolling down the stairs like a broken doll, while Aretha stood at the top of the landing, looking down, her hands still resting at her sides.

"Kelli!" Anders roared. His eyes went wide with panic.

He sprinted across the foyer and took the stairs two at a time.

He caught Kelli near the bottom, scooping her limp body into his arms. Then, he looked up at Aretha.

The pure, unfiltered hatred in Anders's eyes made Aretha's stomach churn.

Anders stormed up the remaining steps. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't ask for her side of the story.

He grabbed the lapels of Aretha's trench coat and shoved her backward with all his strength.

Aretha's feet slipped on the marble floor. She flew backward, her spine slamming brutally against the wall.

The impact sent a shockwave of agony straight into her failing stomach. Cold sweat instantly broke out across her forehead. Her fingers curled inward, scraping against the wall as she slid down to the floor.

Anders turned his back on her, rushing down to pick up Kelli, who was now pretending to be unconscious. He held Kelli like she was his entire world, treating Aretha like a convicted murderer.

Cornelius marched up the stairs. The patriarch of the family stood over Aretha, looking down at his biological daughter with eyes made of ice.

"You are a disgrace to this family," Cornelius spat. "Using such vicious tactics against your sister when you know she suffers from depression."

Cornelius crossed his arms, delivering his ultimate threat. "I am freezing your trust fund immediately. You will get on your knees and apologize to Kelli right now, or you will not see another dime."

The words trust fund echoed in Aretha's ears.

She swallowed hard, fighting the nausea and the blinding pain in her gut. She placed her hand flat against the wall and pushed herself up. Her legs shook, but she forced herself to stand tall.

She raised her head. Her pale face held absolutely no fear. Only the cold, hard resolve of someone who had already accepted death.

Aretha wiped a fresh streak of blood from her chin. She looked from Anders to Cornelius.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and spoke loud enough for every single guest in the foyer below to hear.

"From this exact second," Aretha declared, her voice ringing clear and steady, "I sever all blood and legal ties with the Hines family."

Before the shock could even register on Cornelius's face, she dropped the final bomb.

"And I voluntarily renounce every single cent of my inheritance and the family trust fund."

The entire grand hall plunged into a deafening, graveyard silence.

Even Kelli, who was pretending to be passed out in Anders's arms, twitched and opened her eyes a fraction in pure shock.

Cornelius's face turned a violent shade of purple. He had used money to control her for six years. He never imagined she would be the one to flip the board.

Anders's pupils dilated. His arms stiffened around Kelli. He stared at the woman standing at the top of the stairs, feeling like he was looking at a complete stranger.

Aretha didn't give a damn about their shock. She turned around and walked down the hallway toward her room.

She had one last thing to grab. One last piece of paper to end this absolute nightmare.

Aretha walked into the cramped guest room. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out any trace of sunlight.

She opened the bottom drawer of the small dresser, reached all the way to the back, and pulled out a thick, manila envelope.

Her fingers gripped the paper tightly. She turned around and walked out of the room. Her steps were slow, heavy with exhaustion, but completely unwavering.

She walked back to the top of the stairs and began her descent.

The silence in the foyer was suffocating. Every eye in the room was glued to her as she walked down step by step.

Cornelius let out a harsh scoff, his patriarchal pride refusing to bend. He thought this was just an extreme negotiation tactic. A desperate cry for attention.

Anders had handed Kelli off to the family doctor and a few maids. He stood dead center in the foyer, his face dark and stormy.

As Aretha reached the bottom step, Anders let out a cold, mocking laugh.

"You think you can survive out there without this family?" Anders sneered. "With your spending habits, Aretha? You won't even be able to afford a cup of Starbucks by tomorrow morning."

Aretha stopped exactly one step away from him. She listened to his arrogant, condescending humiliation without a single change in her expression.

She didn't argue. She didn't yell.

She simply raised her hand and whipped the manila envelope directly at Anders's handsome face.

The envelope burst open mid-air. Pages of thick, legal document paper rained down like snow, slapping against Anders's chest before scattering across the marble floor.

Anders flinched, taking a half-step back. His eyes dropped to the papers at his feet.

Printed in bold, black ink at the very top of the first page were two words: Divorce Agreement.

And at the bottom of the page, on the signature line, the name Aretha Hines was already signed in crisp, black ink.

Anders's lungs forgot how to pull in air. His chest seized. He snapped his head up, staring at Aretha in absolute disbelief.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd of guests. No one could believe that Aretha-the woman who had worshipped the ground Anders walked on-was the one demanding a divorce.

Anders clenched his jaw, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and panic. "What the hell is this? Are you doing this to get a bigger settlement?"

Aretha slowly looked around the room. She looked at the massive floral arrangements, the expensive balloons, and the giant banner that read Happy Birthday Kelli.

"You threw a massive party for her," Aretha said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the room like a razor blade. "And not a single one of you remembered that today is my actual birthday."

The words hit Meredith and Cornelius like a physical blow. Both of their faces froze in sudden, horrifying realization.

Kelli, leaning against a maid on the sofa, looked panicked. If the media got hold of this, her sweet, innocent image would be ruined.

Anders's Adam's apple bobbed. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend himself against the sudden, crushing weight of guilt, but his throat felt glued shut.

Aretha didn't give him the chance to speak.

She pointed at the papers on the floor. "I am walking away with nothing," she told Anders, her voice devoid of any warmth. "I don't want a single cent of your money."

Walking away with nothing.

Those words completely shattered Anders's delusion that she was just playing hard to get.

Aretha turned on her heel. She pulled the collar of her thin trench coat tighter around her neck and walked straight toward the massive front doors.

Meredith finally snapped out of her shock. "If you walk out that door, don't you ever think about coming back!" she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation.

Aretha didn't pause. She didn't look back.

She pushed the heavy mahogany doors open.

The freezing, biting wind of Long Island howled into the foyer, whipping her dark hair around her face and blowing away the last traces of her existence in this house.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind her with a deafening thud, locking the hypocrisy and the shock inside.

Anders stood frozen in the center of the room. He looked down at the signed divorce papers at his feet. A sudden, sharp pain pierced his chest, completely unexplainable and terrifying.

Outside, Aretha walked alone down the long, tree-lined driveway toward the main highway.

The pain in her stomach was so severe she could barely stand straight, but as the cold wind hit her face, a genuine, completely free smile broke across her lips.

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.