Semua Bab Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix: Bab 51 - Bab 60

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬She walks away without looking back, her spine straight, chin up, that fire still burning in her eyes like a challenge.I should be annoyed.But I’m not.I’m fascinated.There’s something about the way Aretha holds herself—unyielding, deliberate. Like the world’s tried to break her a thousand times, and she’s still standing, daring anyone to come closer. Or try again.I watch her disappear into the crowd of guests, then exhale slowly, adjusting the cuffs of my tux. This time, I’m the one left standing alone. And damn if it doesn’t feel different.I turn and head back into the golden-lit room where the rest of the party buzzes. The room’s thick with perfume, laughter, and clinking glasses. Chandeliers drip crystals from the ceiling, casting the entire space in a soft, opulent glow. Everyone here is dressed to impress—politicians, moguls, heirs, and more. But the moment I step back in, I feel eyes trail after me. Always do.It doesn’t take long to spot Cameron and Nathaniel

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The hospital air is cold—too cold. It seeps through my skin and settles deep into my bones, making me feel like I’m walking through a fog. I sit on one of the stiff plastic chairs in the waiting area, hands clasped tightly in my lap. I must’ve checked the time on my phone a hundred times in the past hour, each glance bringing no new relief.Where are they? Why hasn’t anyone come out yet?I chew on the inside of my cheek, my mind replaying the accident in a relentless loop. The sickening thud of her body brushing the jeep’s front grille, the sharp scream that tore from my lips, the way Alfie clutched my hand so tightly as we rushed out of the car. That little girl—so small, so fragile—just darting across like life was a game of tag.I’ve tried to breathe. I’ve tried to pray. Nothing sticks. I feel like I’m going to break apart, right here in this freezing corridor.Then I hear footsteps. Sharp. Hasty. Unforgiving.My eyes lift just in time to see a woman charging toward me

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚I wake up to the distinct scent of chamomile tea and the soft clinking of china. For a brief second, I think I’ve dreamt it all up—the accident, the hospital, the mother’s accusations, the kiss with Marcos. But when I open my eyes and see Mom standing at the foot of my bed, holding a tray while wearing her signature pinched expression of maternal concern, I know I didn’t.“Aretha, darling,” she says carefully, as though afraid she might shatter me if she speaks too loudly, “you don’t have to go in today.”I sit up, blinking away the sleep from my eyes. “I do.”“You shouldn’t.” She sets the tray on my bedside table. “Not after everything yesterday. The media is going to be relentless. And emotionally, you’re—”“I’m fine, Mom. Seriously. I appreciate your concern, though.”She gives me a look that says she’s not convinced, but she knows me well enough not to argue. Still, she lingers while I get ready, watching me like I’m about to unravel. I offer a small smile and a kiss

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚It’s just past 10 a.m. when my personal assistant, Winifred, bursts into my office, tablet in hand, eyes gleaming with the kind of enthusiasm that usually spells either disaster or a sudden stroke of genius. I look up from the contract I’ve been revising for the last twenty minutes, one brow lifting in silent question.“You’re going to want to see this, Miss. Hawthorne,” she says, practically skipping to my desk.“Please tell me that’s not another scandal brewing,” I mutter, half-joking. After the week I’ve had, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s unearthed some long-forgotten college photos or declared I secretly run a cult in my spare time.“Quite the opposite actually, Boss.” Winnie swings the tablet around so I can see the analytics dashboard. “Sales are up. Way up. Nearly thirty-two percent since yesterday. Online traffic has doubled since this morning alone. And…” she swipes to another page, “…our social sentiment index has shifted. Positively.”I blink at the numb

𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚His office is still the calm, neat space I remember, though now I notice how strikingly organized it is. The books on the shelf are arranged alphabetically, a soft lavender-scented diffuser hums in the corner, and a small bonsai tree sits by the window like a gentle sentinel. There’s not a single paper out of place, every pen lined up with precision. It’s the kind of space that mirrors Marcus himself—composed, measured, and quietly meticulous.He closes the door behind me and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. I sink into it wordlessly as he moves around, taking his usual seat behind the desk and resting both hands on the surface like he’s bracing for something heavier than an update.“Florence is healing faster than expected,” he begins. His voice is calm but firm, always steady. “Her vitals are stable, her scans are clean, and she’s responding well to treatment. If everything stays on track, she could be discharged by next weekend.”I close my eyes for a brief sec