His Unwanted Wife Is A Dying Genius

Dr. Evans pushed the biopsy report across the cold metal surface of the desk. His face was heavy, the lines around his mouth pulled tight.

The document slid toward Aretha, stopping just inches from her hands. A red, highly confidential stamp glared at her from the top right corner.

Aretha's eyes dropped to the bottom of the page. The words blurred for a second before snapping into a brutal, undeniable focus.

Advanced gastric cancer. Accompanied by rare organ failure.

"The cancer cells are spreading at an unnatural rate," Dr. Evans said, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "And there is a bizarre, total collapse of your immune system happening simultaneously."

A violent cramp seized Aretha's stomach. It wasn't a dull ache. It was a physical twisting of her organs, forcing her to grip the leather armrests of her chair until her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

"We need to admit you immediately," Dr. Evans continued, leaning forward. "Aggressive targeted therapy is our only option to try and extend your life."

Aretha slowly shook her head. Her face was entirely drained of color. A bitter, hollow smile touched her lips.

She knew enough about biology to understand that with this level of systemic failure, current medical treatments would only offer her a few more months of agonizing, bedridden torture.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the report. It was the piece of paper that dictated she only had ninety days left to breathe.

She folded it. Once. Twice. Her movements were slow, entirely mechanical, as she tucked it deep into the hidden compartment of her Hermes handbag.

Aretha stood up and pushed open the heavy oak door of the consultation room.

The biting, early winter wind of Manhattan seeped through the hallway windows, sliding down her collar and freezing the sweat on her neck.

She stood alone in front of the elevator banks. The polished metal doors reflected her face-pale, hollowed out, looking like a ghost that hadn't quite realized it was dead yet.

A massive, suffocating sense of absurdity washed over her.

Suddenly, her handbag vibrated. A shrill, sharp ringtone shattered the dead silence of the clinic hallway.

Aretha pulled her phone out. The screen flashed with the name of her husband: Anders Bartlett.

She took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in her lungs, and swiped to answer.

"Where the hell are you?" Anders's voice barked through the speaker. Cold. Impatient.

There was no question about her doctor's appointment. No concern for the physical she told him she was having today.

"Do you have any idea how much of a joke you made this family look like today?" Anders demanded, his tone dripping with disgust. "Skipping Kelli's yacht birthday party? Really, Aretha?"

Through the receiver, Aretha could hear the loud, thumping bass of the yacht party in the background. She could hear the clinking of champagne glasses.

And then, she heard Kelli's soft, fake voice whining in the background. Anders, don't yell at her, it's my fault.

The twisting pain in Aretha's stomach doubled down, making her double over slightly.

"Log into your social media right now," Anders ordered. "Post a public apology to Kelli. Make it sound sincere."

Aretha didn't say a word.

For the past three years, she would have immediately apologized. She would have lowered her voice, begged for his understanding, and done exactly what he asked just to keep the peace.

Instead, a dead, five-second silence stretched between them.

"Aretha." Anders's voice rose an octave, deeply offended by her lack of response. "Do not test my patience today."

Aretha looked down at her open bag. The edge of her terminal diagnosis report was barely visible.

A soft, breathy laugh escaped her lips.

The sound made Anders freeze on the other end of the line. The silence was quickly replaced by a surging, arrogant anger. "Are you laughing?"

"Anders," Aretha said. Her voice was an absolute zero. Ice cold and completely foreign to her own ears. "Do you even remember that today is my twenty-sixth birthday?"

The line went dead quiet. A brief, heavy stutter in Anders's breathing gave him away.

He had completely forgotten.

To cover up his sudden guilt, his anger flared hotter. "You are unbelievably petty," he snapped. "Are you seriously jealous of a sister who suffers from severe depression?"

Depression.

The moment she heard that word, the last ounce of warmth in Aretha's eyes vanished. That word had been the shackle around her neck for years, forcing her to yield to Kelli's every whim.

She didn't say another word.

Aretha pulled the phone away from her ear and pressed the red button, cutting off Anders's endless lecturing.

She powered the phone down completely.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. She stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, heading straight for the Metropolitan Bank.

Twenty minutes later, inside the highly secure, private VIP vault of the bank, Aretha placed the folded biopsy report into the highest-tier safety deposit box.

The heavy metal door of the box clicked shut, locking away her death sentence.

With that single click, the timid, people-pleasing woman she had been for the last six years died.

Aretha pulled a tube of deep red lipstick from her bag. She stood in front of the vault's mirror and carefully applied it, masking the sickly pallor of her lips.

She slipped on her dark sunglasses, walked out of the bank's revolving doors, and hailed a yellow cab.

"Hines Estate, Long Island," she told the driver, her voice steady and hard.

She was going back to settle everything.

The taxi tires crunched against the gravel as it pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Hines Estate in Long Island.

Aretha handed the driver a bill, stepped out into the freezing air, and completely ignored the shocked look on the security guard's face.

She walked up the grand steps and pushed open the heavy, double mahogany doors.

The blinding light from the massive crystal chandelier poured over her.

Inside the spacious, classical foyer, the after-party for Kelli's birthday was in full swing. The air smelled of expensive perfume and roasted duck. Women in haute couture gowns laughed while men in tailored suits held crystal glasses of bourbon.

Aretha stepped inside. She was wearing a dark, wind-chilled trench coat that looked entirely out of place among the glittering evening wear.

For half a second, the entire hall went dead silent.

Meredith Hines, Aretha's biological mother, was standing near the grand staircase talking to a group of socialites. She turned her head.

When she saw her actual daughter standing there like an uninvited ghost, the polite smile on Meredith's face instantly vanished.

Meredith set her champagne flute down on a passing tray. Her high heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she marched over.

She didn't ask why Aretha looked so pale. She didn't ask if she was okay.

"Where are your manners?" Meredith hissed, her voice a harsh, reprimanding whip. "You show up late, dressed like a vagrant, and embarrass this family in front of our guests?"

Aretha stood perfectly still. Her eyes were as calm as a stagnant pool of water. She watched her mother perform her usual routine of absolute favoritism.

She didn't lower her head. She didn't apologize.

Aretha straightened her spine, looking Meredith dead in the eye. "Whose manners are we talking about, Mother?" she asked, her voice chillingly flat. "Yours, or the ones you made up for me?"

The unprecedented arrogance in Aretha's tone completely shattered Meredith's control.

Meredith raised her hand. On her middle finger sat a massive, square-cut emerald ring.

She swung her arm and slapped Aretha hard across the face.

The sharp, cracking sound echoed through the cavernous hall. The music seemed to fade. The guests stopped talking, their eyes locking onto the drama unfolding by the door.

The force of the blow snapped Aretha's head to the side. The heavy emerald ring scraped violently against the corner of her mouth.

A warm bead of blood immediately welled up, sliding down her chin.

The sudden, violent spike in her adrenaline triggered a massive cramp deep in her stomach. It felt like her organs were being wrung out like a wet towel.

Her vision went entirely black for a second. Her body swayed.

Aretha bit down on her back teeth so hard her jaw popped. She forced the metallic taste of blood back down her throat and planted her feet firmly on the marble floor. She refused to bend.

"Mom!"

Kelli ran out from the crowd. She was wearing a custom-made white tulle dress, looking like a terrified, innocent dove. She hiked up her skirt and rushed over.

Kelli grabbed Meredith's arm, her eyes already brimming with fake tears. "Mom, please don't be mad," she begged, her voice trembling.

Kelli turned to Aretha, her expression the picture of guilt. "Ari, it's all my fault. I shouldn't have expected you to come celebrate my birthday. I know you hate me."

The guests immediately began whispering. The looks they shot Aretha were filled with pure disgust.

Meredith grabbed Kelli's hands, rubbing them soothingly. "Oh, sweetheart, don't cry. You did nothing wrong," Meredith cooed, treating the adopted daughter like a fragile piece of glass.

Aretha slowly raised the back of her hand. She wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, her movements agonizingly deliberate.

She looked at Meredith. Then she looked at Kelli.

Knowing she only had ninety days left to live made this entire soap opera look incredibly, pathetically hilarious.

Aretha started to laugh.

It wasn't a loud laugh, but it was filled with so much self-mockery and absolute contempt that it made the hairs on the back of Meredith's neck stand up.

"Are you insane?" Meredith demanded, her voice shrill.

Aretha stopped laughing. Her eyes locked onto Meredith, sharp and unyielding.

"From this second on," Aretha said, enunciating every single word, "I will never ask you for a drop of a mother's love ever again."

She didn't wait to see the shock register on Meredith's face.

Aretha bypassed the two women entirely, walking straight toward the grand spiral staircase that led to the second floor.

Kelli watched Aretha's retreating back. A flash of vicious calculation crossed her teary eyes.

Kelli let go of Meredith's hand. "I'll go get an ice pack for her," she whispered sweetly, before quietly slipping away and following Aretha up the stairs.

Aretha heard the soft, deliberate footsteps trailing behind her.

She didn't care. She kept walking.

She was heading to the cramped guest room at the end of the hall to grab the last of her personal belongings. The real storm was just about to begin.

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.