Chapter 8

The surgery was a success.

Dr. Walton removed the tumor, and the lymph node biopsy showed no signs of spread.

"Clean margins," she announced during her rounds. "We got it all."

Recovery took two weeks.

Then, the chemotherapy began.

My first session took place on a Wednesday morning.

A nurse escorted me to the infusion center, a bright, airy room filled with a dozen reclining chairs, each flanked by a tall IV pole.

Through the expansive windows, the East River churned under the New York sky. Prints of Monet's water lilies adorned the walls. A Spotify playlist hummed softly in the background—the melancholic, soothing voices of Norah Jones, Coldplay, and Bon Iver.

The nurse found a vein and tapped in the needle. The drugs—Keytruda paired with a low dose of Carboplatin—began to drip steadily into my bloodstream.

For the first two hours, I felt nothing.

By the third hour, the nausea set in.

The nurse immediately administered Zofran, an anti-emetic. The sickness receded slightly, but the phantom urge to vomit remained tucked in the back of my throat.

By the fourth hour, exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic ticking of the IV pump, feeling my body engage in a grim tug-of-war with death.

The side effects were more brutal than Dr. Walton had predicted.

During the first week, I was plagued by vomiting and total physical collapse. I lived on spoonfuls of plain congee and crackers; the mere scent of other food made my stomach churn.

By the second week, my hair began to fail. It started with a few stray strands, then came out in thick, matted clumps. I stood before the bathroom mirror, watching the drain clog with pieces of myself, and wept.

By the third week, mouth sores bloomed, my sense of taste vanished, and my hands and feet went numb. I couldn't even keep water down and had to rely on IV fluids for hydration.

Yet, I didn't experience the soul-crushing agony of my previous life.

Now, it was early.

Now, I had the best medicine money could buy.

Because I was rich.

By the end of the second cycle, I had lost fifteen pounds.

Dr. Walton suggested I shave my head.

"It's going to fall out anyway," she said gently. "It's better to take control of the process."

She was right.

I called a stylist to my hospital room and directed her to buzz it all off.

Looking at the bald woman in the mirror, I actually smiled. "Not bad. Very Furiosa."

The nurse laughed. "You're handling this better than most patients, Mrs. Costello."

I didn't tell her that this was my second time dying of cancer.

I had already suffered my breakdown in a previous life.

In this one, I only cared about survival.

Before the third cycle, I needed to settle the next installment of the treatment costs.

The nurse entered my room with a clipboard. "Mrs. Costello, we need to process the payment for your next cycle. The total is $73,500."

I nodded and handed her the black Amex.

She took it to the station to run the charge.

Five minutes later, she returned, looking awkward.

"Uhm... Mrs. Costello, the card was declined. The system says the account has been frozen."

I froze for a second.

Then, I laughed.

Of course.

Vince had cut me off.

I pulled a heavy coat over my hospital gown and donned the wig the nurses had given me—the one they said "made me look less scary." I hopped in an Uber and headed toward Vince's midtown headquarters.

The Costello "Shipping Company" was headquartered on Fifth Avenue, housed in a 1930s Art Deco masterpiece. It was thirty stories of limestone and ego, with Vince's office occupying the penthouse.

When I reached the entrance, a security guard immediately blocked my path. "Ma'am, do you have an appointment with Mr. Costello?"

I looked at him. He was in his early twenties, an Italian-American kid who was clearly a new recruit to the family business.

I pulled my marriage certificate from my bag.

"Does this count?"

He glanced at the document, and his face drained of color. "Mrs. Costello. My deepest apologies, I didn't recognize you. Please, this way."

He escorted me through the marble lobby to the private express elevator.

All along the way, employees stared.

I knew how I looked—an ill-fitting wig, a hospital gown peeking out from under my coat, skin as thin as parchment, and a clear medical bandage over the IV port on the back of my hand.

I looked like a walking corpse.

But I didn't care.

In my previous life, after the divorce, I had come to this very building to beg for money.

Back then, I hadn't even made it past the front door. They had chased me away because I only had a divorce decree in my hand, not a marriage certificate.

The elevator dings at the thirtieth floor.

As the doors slid open, the sound of laughter and idle gossip drifted from the open-plan office.

"So, Miss Bella, is it true the boss is finally divorcing that wife of his? If you ask me, it's about time."

"Right? I've worked here three years and never even seen her," another voice chimed in. "I heard she's just some orphan who paints. She's lucky she ever landed him."

"Yeah, when the boss met with that Russian arms dealer last week, the guy kept asking where you were, Miss Bella. He said the boss won't even touch his vodka unless you're there to pour the toast."

Bella let out a coy, melodic giggle. "Oh, stop it, guys. The boss and I are just colleagues. My father trusts him, so I'm here to help."

She paused, her voice dripping with practiced modesty. "But as for the divorce? It won't be long now."

I stood in the corridor, listening to the exchange, a mocking smile curling on my lips.

This was the difference between being loved and being discarded.

Before Bella arrived, Vince had strictly forbidden office gossip.

Anyone caught whispering would have been fired on the spot.

Now, the disrespect was casual.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the office suite.

The room went dead silent.

Heads turned in a wave of shock and terror.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you all," I said, my voice thin but steady. "Your boss isn't getting a divorce."

I looked directly at Bella. "He's going to be a widower first."