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.

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.