The bus smelled of wet wool and diesel fumes. Aurelia sat in the back, her suitcase wedged between her knees. She watched the landscape change from the manicured lawns of the estate district to the strip malls and cracked pavement of the outer suburbs.
She counted the cash in her wallet again. Enough for the fare to The Sanctuary, with maybe five dollars left over for a vending machine sandwich.
The Sanctuary was an ironic name. It was a high-security nursing home for the wealthy and unwanted. The place where rich families stored their inconvenient elders.
She got off at the gate. The rain had stopped, leaving everything damp and cold.
She walked to the front desk. Betty, the receptionist, looked up and frowned.
"Ms. Blanchard," Betty said, her voice lowered. "Your father called an hour ago. He revoked your visitor pass."
Aurelia's stomach dropped. Richard worked fast.
"Betty," Aurelia said, leaning over the counter. "Please. I have medical proxy. He can't revoke that without a court order. It takes 48 hours to process."
It was a bluff. Richard probably had a judge in his pocket. But Betty didn't know that.
"I could lose my job," Betty whispered.
"You won't," Aurelia said. "Remember when I stitched up your son's chin in the parking lot so you didn't have to pay for the ER? You owe me one."
Betty hesitated, then sighed. She buzzed the door. "Ten minutes. If the administrator sees you, I don't know you."
"Thank you."
Aurelia hurried down the corridor. The smell of antiseptic and lavender air freshener made her nostalgic for the hospital.
She reached Room 304. She pushed the door open softly.
Genevieve Blanchard sat in her wheelchair by the window, staring at a dead oak tree in the courtyard. She looked smaller than Aurelia remembered. Frail.
"Gigi?"
The old woman turned. Her eyes, usually clouded with dementia, were surprisingly sharp today.
"Aurelia?" Genevieve squinted. "Why are you here? Did that little witch Dominique do something to you?"
Aurelia felt tears prick her eyes. She rushed forward and knelt by the wheelchair.
"They kicked me out, Gigi. I refused to sign the NDA."
Genevieve reached out. Her hand, shaking and spotted with age, cupped Aurelia's cheek. "Good. Never sign your name to a lie. That's the first rule of business."
She fumbled under the cushion of her wheelchair. She pulled out a wrinkled paper bag.
"Here," she whispered. "Imported truffles. I hid them from the nurse. She says my sugar is too high. Bah."
Aurelia took the bag. The chocolates were melted and misshapen. It was the most precious thing she had ever been given. She buried her face in her grandmother's lap and let out a sob she had been holding for hours.
"Don't cry," Genevieve said, her voice steeling. "Tears are for funerals. We aren't dead yet."
She leaned in close. "Richard thinks he's won. He thinks because I'm in here, he controls the voting shares. But I haven't signed the competency waiver."
"He's going to force you," Aurelia said, wiping her eyes. "He's bringing lawyers."
"I know," Genevieve said. "That's why we need a nuclear option."
"What option?"
"Marriage," Genevieve said.
Aurelia blinked. "What? Who?"
"Not that spineless Blackburn boy," Genevieve scoffed. "The real power. The one they're all afraid of."
She pointed a crooked finger toward the window, toward the adjacent building in the complex. It was a separate wing, high-security, dark windows.
"The VIP wing," Genevieve said. "Avery Blackburn is there."
Aurelia froze. "Avery Blackburn? The CEO of Blackburn Capital? I thought he was... incapacitated. Brain damage from the helicopter crash."
"That's what the papers say," Genevieve said, a sly grin appearing on her face. "But I hear things. The nurses talk. He's not a vegetable. He's hiding."
"Hiding?"
"From the SEC. From his own board. He needs a distraction. You need a shield." Genevieve gripped Aurelia's hand. "Marry him. The Blackburn name trumps the Blanchard name. Richard won't dare touch you if you're Mrs. Avery Blackburn."
"Gigi, that's insane. He's a stranger. And rumor says he's disfigured and violent."
"Better a monster you can use than a father who eats his young," Genevieve said.
Outside the window, in the shadows of the courtyard shrubbery, a camera lens adjusted its focus.
