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.

At two in the morning, Aretha woke up. Her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper-a brutal side effect of the heavy painkillers she had taken earlier.

She slipped out from under the quilt, grabbed an old cardigan, and opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible, intending to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

The hallway was pitch black, except for a sliver of pale, bluish light spilling from a cracked door at the far end.

It was Kian Finch's room. Her adoptive brother.

As Aretha stepped closer to the staircase, she heard the low, suppressed sound of Kian's voice. He was arguing with someone-likely his parents down the hall.

"She ignored us for six years!" Kian's voice was tight with frustration and anxiety. "And now, the second she gets kicked out by the billionaires, she comes running back? She's bringing trouble."

Aretha froze in the shadows.

"Do you have any idea what the Bartletts and the Hines can do?" Kian hissed, pacing his room. "They will crush us. We are a normal family. We can't survive the kind of crossfire she brings. She's a walking disaster for us."

Aretha's hand hovered inches from the kitchen doorframe. Her fingers slowly curled into a loose fist.

She didn't feel angry. She just felt an overwhelming, crushing wave of sorrow.

Kian was right. She was a dying woman. She had no right to drag this innocent family down with her when the Caldwells inevitably came looking for blood.

Aretha lowered her hand. She didn't go to the kitchen. She turned around and drifted back into her room like a ghost.

She didn't turn on the light. Using only the moonlight filtering through the blinds, she began to pack her small duffel bag.

She reached into the inner lining of her trench coat and pulled out a thick, waterproof envelope.

Inside was a sleek, black titanium bank card holding the entirety of her pre-marital savings and her late grandmother's secret trust-assets the Bartlett family never knew existed. She had planned to use it for medical care or just to survive her last days.

Now, she was leaving it here, along with a handwritten note containing the PIN. It was the only compensation she could offer the Finch family.

Aretha placed the thick envelope squarely on the nightstand, resting her empty water glass on top of it as a paperweight.

Before the sun even began to rise, she picked up her bag, took one last look at the warm room, and slipped out the front door into the freezing dawn.

At seven in the morning, sunlight broke over Brooklyn. Kian walked out of his room, rubbing his tired eyes, planning to wake Aretha up for breakfast.

He pushed open the guest room door.

The bed was empty. The quilt was folded perfectly, as if no one had ever slept there.

Kian's heart slammed against his ribs. He rushed into the room and immediately saw the waterproof envelope under the glass.

He ripped it open. When he saw the black titanium card and read the staggering account balance written on the note inside, his pupils dilated. His lungs stopped working.

The realization hit him like a freight train. The shadow in the hallway last night. She had heard him. A toxic, suffocating wave of guilt bit into his chest. His defensive, tough-guy act had driven her away into the cold. He remembered how she used to shield him from neighborhood bullies when they were kids, taking the hits so he wouldn't have to. 'Family doesn't abandon family,' his father's rough voice echoed in his mind from their argument last night. Kian bolted out of the room, yelling for his parents. When they confirmed she was gone, he punched the hallway wall so hard his knuckles bled.

He sprinted back to his room and threw himself into his desk chair. His fingers flew across his high-end, multi-monitor setup.

As a top-tier independent hacker and data analyst, Kian bypassed the city's traffic grid firewalls in seconds. Ten minutes of frantic coding later, he locked onto her face on a terminal security camera. She had boarded a long-distance Greyhound bus. He immediately hacked into the Greyhound ticketing database, cross-referencing her alias with the bus's onboard GPS telemetry.

Kian grabbed his keys, didn't even bother grabbing a jacket, and sprinted down the stairs. He threw himself into his heavily modified off-road Jeep.

The engine roared to life like an angry beast. Kian slammed his foot on the gas, tearing out of Brooklyn.

He merged onto the highway, his eyes locked on the GPS tracker on his phone. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

The red dot representing the bus's transponder on his screen was moving steadily west, finally stopping at a remote coordinate in the mountains of San Diego-an ancient, isolated monastery.

The California sun was bright, but the wind whipping through the San Diego mountains carried a sharp chill.

Aretha stood in the silent, stone courtyard of the ancient monastery. Her thin trench coat offered no protection. She looked incredibly fragile, like a leaf ready to detach from a branch.

She approached Silas Penn, a young novice monk wearing a simple linen robe.

Her voice was weak, barely a whisper over the wind. She didn't ask for a miracle cure. She calmly asked him about the procedures for last rites and how to secure a burial plot on the grounds.

Silas looked at the young woman. Her eyes were completely devoid of life. A deep look of pity crossed his face.

He reached into the wide sleeve of his robe and pulled out a string of polished obsidian rosary beads. He murmured a soft prayer for peace in the afterlife.

Silas held the dark beads out to her, offering them as a symbol of acceptance and death.

Aretha lowered her eyes. She slowly reached out. Her pale fingers, bruised with needle marks from her recent blood draws, trembled as they neared the stones.

Just as her fingertips brushed the cold obsidian, the heavy sound of combat boots slamming against the stone courtyard shattered the silence.

A large, muscular hand shot out from nowhere. The veins on the back of the hand were bulging with rage.

The hand snatched the obsidian rosary right out of Silas's grip, pulling so hard the connecting string nearly snapped.

With a violent swing, the hand hurled the beads at the hard stone floor.

Crack.

The rosary shattered into dozens of pieces, scattering across the courtyard.

Aretha gasped and spun around.

She found herself staring into Kian's bloodshot, furious eyes. He was breathing heavily, his hair a mess, having driven non-stop across the country to find her.

Kian didn't say a single word. He reached up and aggressively yanked a silver St. Christopher medal off his own neck. The metal was still warm from his body heat.

He grabbed Aretha's freezing hand and shoved the silver amulet-a symbol of protection for the living-deep into her palm, closing her fingers tightly around it.

"Don't you dare arrange your funeral," Kian growled, his voice vibrating with a terrifying intensity. "As long as I am breathing, I will not let you die."

Aretha was stunned by his sheer force. She tried to pull her hand back. "Kian, let go. I don't have time left."

The moment she said that, Kian's eyes turned red. The tough exterior broke. He grabbed her thin wrist in a vice grip.

Without asking for permission, Kian dragged her toward the exit of the monastery, completely ignoring the shocked monk behind them.

Aretha was too weak to fight back. She stumbled over the stones, forced to follow his relentless pace.

He dragged her out the gates to his mud-splattered Jeep. Kian yanked the passenger door open, practically lifted her off the ground, and shoved her into the seat.

He leaned over her, his chest brushing hers, and aggressively buckled her seatbelt. His movements were rough, driven by a paranoid fear that she would vanish into thin air.

Aretha fell back against the seat, gasping for air. "Where are you taking me?"

Kian slammed the door shut, locked the doors from the driver's side, and started the engine.

"To find out what the hell is actually killing you," he snapped, throwing the Jeep into gear.

He looked at her, his jaw set in stone. "The diagnosis has too many anomalies. I need a better opinion. I've already booked the top private VIP clinic in California."

The Jeep tore down the mountain road, leaving the ringing bells of the monastery far behind as they sped toward Los Angeles.

The cabin fell into a heavy silence. Aretha stared out the window. The absolute deadness in her heart had been violently ripped open by Kian's refusal to let her go.

Kian tapped his Bluetooth earpiece, speaking in rapid, highly technical medical jargon to someone on the other end, confirming their arrival time.

Aretha's stomach churned violently. She closed her eyes, terrified of what this forced medical exam would bring-a sliver of hope, or the final nail in her coffin.