Novels by Maggie

#AvelineThe first thing that came back to me was the smell. It was a sharp, burning smell of hospital bleach that hurt the back of my nose. Right under it was a soft, heavy scent of expensive lavender oil. It was a clean smell, but it was so strong it made it hard to breathe. I tried to open my eyes. My eyelids felt like they were made of heavy stone, glued shut by a deep sleep. When I finally forced them open, everything was a soft, blurry cream color. The lights were low and warm. There were no harsh, buzzing hospital tubes on the ceiling. I was looking up at a massive, beautiful ceiling with costly wood trim. I tried to turn my neck to see where I was. A sudden, sharp bolt of pain shot straight down my spine. It felt like the bones in my neck had turned to solid rock. A tiny gasp left my dry lips. My throat felt like rough sand. Slowly, trying to fight the pain, I tried to lift my body to sit up. The moment I shifted my weight, a wave of sickness hit my stomach. My arms and legs

#RhettThe heavy oak door of my study shut out the rest of the mansion, restoring the quiet, predictable order I preferred. I walked over to the crystal decanter on the side table, poured two fingers of scotch, and took a slow sip. Outside, the rain lashed violently against the glass, and the wind rattled the window frames, but inside, the fire burned steady and warm. I sat down behind my mahogany desk, pulling a stack of hospitality acquisition reports toward me. Aveline had been completely out of line tonight. Pushing her way down the stairs, waving that ridiculous, folded piece of clinic paper, and claiming she only had six months left to live—it was purely an act. I knew my wife. She was quiet, predictable, and had always been entirely compliant. But lately, she had been growing desperate for my attention. Fabricating a terminal illness just because Celine was moving back into the house was childish, even for her. She was just throwing a tantrum. A massive, high-society tantrum

#AvelineThe heavy oak doors of the parlor clicked shut behind me, and with that single sound, the final thread of my old life snapped. I stood alone in the dim, cavernous hallway of the Calloway mansion, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my cardigan to hide the violent shaking of my fingers. Inside that room, Celine was still cradling her stomach, whispering to Rhett about the son she was carrying, the perfect heir I could never give him. Inside that room, Lyra, the girl I had raised from an infant, was cheering for my replacement. A sudden, sharp spike of pain clawed at my abdomen, so intense that my vision instantly went white at the edges. I stumbled forward, my shoulder slamming hard against the cold wallpapered wall of the corridor. I gasped, a ragged, desperate sound, as the aggressive terminal illness inside me flared up. *Six months,* the doctor had said. But under the suffocating weight of this house, it felt like my body was trying to give up right now. “No.” I g

#AvelineThe air in the grand master bedroom felt thin. I stood in front of the vanity mirror, staring at a woman I barely recognized anymore. My skin was translucent, almost grey, and the dark circles beneath my eyes looked like bruises carved into my flesh by the sheer weight of my exhaustion. Six months. I reached into the pocket of my cardigan and pulled out the folded medical report. The text was blurred slightly by the moisture of my trembling hands, but the words *Advanced Malignant Carcinoma Stage IV* stood out in stark, unyielding black ink. It was a deadly sentence. The doctor had been gentle when he broke the news, his voice dripping with professional pity as he told me that treatment at this stage would only prolong the agony, not save my life.*“Go home, Mrs. Calloway,”* he had said, not knowing the cruel irony of his words. *“Spend what time you have left with your loved ones. Surround yourself with the people who matter most.”* I let out another hollow, breathless la

#AvelineI didn’t leave the foyer right away. My feet felt glued to the cold marble floor, while the echo of the heavy oak door to Rhett’s study slamming shut still vibrated through the grand hallway. The medical report in my hand felt like a sick, twisted joke. Six months to live, my diagnosis was an absolute death sentence, and yet the man I had given my youth to was already executing a plan to replace me.A sudden, sharp spasm of pain bloomed deep within my abdomen, a cruel reminder of the war being fought inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing a trembling hand against my stomach, forcing myself to draw a slow, ragged breath through my nose. I couldn't break down here. Not in the open. I couldn't let the staff see me crumble, and I certainly couldn't give Rhett the satisfaction of seeing me look weak.Before the pain could completely subside, a burst of bright laughter echoed from the grand parlor down the hall, cutting through the suffocating silence of the ground floor.It

#Aveline“I have half a year left to live.” The words sat heavily on my tongue, but I couldn't say them out loud.I just stared at the medical report in my trembling hands, the white paper crinkling under the tight, white-knuckled pressure of my grip. Six months. One hundred and eighty days. That was all the time the doctor had granted me before my body finally surrendered to the aggressive, silent illness eating away at my vitals from the inside out. Instead of crying, a hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips.Half a year. It was funny, in a twisted sort of way. I had spent nearly a decade dying in slow motion inside this house anyway, so now my body was simply forcing the timeline to catch up. Eight years. For eight long, excruciating years, I had been married to Rhett Calloway. Eight years of pouring myself into a vessel that was permanently leaking, trying to fill a void that was never meant for me. He had met me at the very brink of my career. Back then, I was a bright, fierce