From Blood Bag To Billionaire Queen

The truffle oil smelled like earth and money. It was a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the back of Aleigha's throat.

She stood in the center of the kitchen, the marble island cold against her hip. The knife in her hand moved with a mechanical rhythm. Slice. Chop. Slide. The black truffles, imported from Italy just this morning, fell into perfect, paper-thin discs.

The clock on the wall ticked. Seven o'clock.

She had been standing here for four hours. Her feet throbbed inside her house slippers, a dull ache that radiated up her calves.

It was their third anniversary.

The Beef Wellington, Bart's favorite, sat prepped and ready for the oven. The pastry lattice was a work of art, woven with the kind of patience only a desperate woman possessed.

The phone on the counter buzzed.

The sound was aggressive against the marble. The screen lit up, illuminating the dim kitchen with a harsh, artificial glow.

Hubby.

A reflex, ingrained over three years of conditioning, made her heart jump. A small, pathetic flutter of hope rose in her chest. Maybe he was on his way. Maybe he remembered.

She wiped her damp hands on her apron. She slid the screen unlock.

The hope died instantly, replaced by a physical blow to her stomach.

Crysta fainted again. Low hemoglobin. Get to St. Luke's. Now.

No hello. No anniversary wish. Just a command.

Aleigha stared at the words. The letters seemed to blur, swimming in a pool of sudden, hot moisture that filled her eyes. Her breath hitched, catching in her ribs like a jagged stone.

Another buzz.

Crysta Farmer: So sorry, Aleigha. Bart is just so worried about me. We need your Rh-negative blood again. He won't calm down until you're here.

An image loaded below the text.

It was a photo taken from a low angle, likely from a hospital bed. It showed a man's hand-Bart's hand, with the platinum watch she had bought him for his birthday-clasping a pale, slender female hand against white hospital sheets.

The intimacy of the grip was nauseating. It was tender. Protective.

Everything he never was with her.

Aleigha dropped the phone face down. The clack echoed in the silent kitchen.

A wave of nausea rolled through her. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white. It wasn't just emotional pain anymore. It was physiological. Her body was rejecting this reality.

The front door downstairs slammed open.

High heels clicked sharply against the foyer floor. The sound was distinct, aggressive.

"God, what is that smell?"

Dorla Brown walked into the kitchen, her nose wrinkled as if she had stepped into a sewer. She was carrying an orange Hermès Birkin bag, swinging it carelessly.

She scanned the kitchen, her eyes landing on the tray of prepared food.

"Are we eating this heavy trash tonight?" Dorla asked, tossing her keys onto the counter, dangerously close to the truffles. "It smells like wet dirt. I told you I wanted light salads this week,