His Love Has No Limits

In the fifth winter of my relationship with Adrian Vanderbilt, I was diagnosed with cancer. He, on the other hand, went back to his first love.

I didn’t try to hide it. I handed him the diagnosis. Adrian lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and said calmly, “I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars. That should cover your treatment for mid-stage breast cancer.”

He paused, then added, “Let’s not see each other anymore. My fiancée is a good person. I don’t want her to feel disrespected.”

I said nothing, just watched him pack his things and walk out of the SoHo loft we had shared. He was preparing for a wedding.

And I—I shaved my head, checked into Memorial Sloan Kettering, and began chemotherapy. Alone.

A year later, I was fully recovered. I ran into Adrian at a charity event.

He grabbed my wrist, eyes red. “Lila, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He said everything with Claire had been a misunderstanding. He asked if we could start over.

I looked him straight in the eye, slowly pulling my hand away. “Sorry, Mr. Vanderbilt. I’m married. And I just had a baby.”

---

When Adrian broke up with me, I was holding my cancer diagnosis in my hand.

There was no dramatic concealment, none of that soap opera nonsense. I simply handed him the paper.

“You sure you want to break up? I’ve got cancer—it's serious.”

His usually cool gaze flickered with surprise. He instinctively looked down.

The paper was thin, clinical: Stage II breast cancer. Immediate hospitalization recommended.

He hadn’t prepared a script for this kind of scene, and the silence between us turned heavy.

Of course, as the heir to the Vanderbilt family—one of the most powerful names on the Upper East Side—getting rid of a girlfriend with no family, no beauty to speak of, and no social standing should have been effortless.

But now I was sick. Really sick.

And that added a layer of moral obligation.

So Adrian frowned for a long moment, then said, “I’ll add another 250 grand. That’s seven hundred fifty thousand dollars total. It should be enough for the best care.”

The same man who once cried in a Columbia auditorium over his dead mother, now stood blank-faced, throwing money at the woman who'd stood by him for five years—me.

I almost laughed. After all the intimacy, all the nights, all the everything—we didn’t even part with a label. I wasn’t even allowed the illusion of a role in his life.

I took a deep breath and accepted the black credit card.

I looked at him coolly. “Do I need to sign anything?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Like a non-disclosure agreement or something? Do I have to sign before I can use the money?”

He gave a short laugh, amused. “No. We’re parting on good terms, right?”

He was really that nonchalant.

I nodded and slipped the card into my coat pocket.

I watched as Adrian opened a drawer, pulling out documents and a few luxury watches.

Clearly, he’d been planning this for a while. His tailored suits and other valuables had already disappeared.

The soft light skimmed the sharp lines of his face. For a moment, it felt like I was watching that shy college boy from years ago say goodbye again.

But Adrian hadn’t smiled at me in a long time. His face was distant as he said, “I’ve deleted your contact. I hope you won’t reach out again. I don’t want my fiancée to feel uncomfortable.”

“If there’s an emergency,” he added as he stepped into the shoes I bought him for his birthday, “you can call my assistant. He’ll handle things as needed.”

He paused at the door. “By the way, I’ll ask around about doctors for you. Claire has friends—some of the best specialists in the country.”

Claire Astor. The first love he fought so hard to win back.

I heard myself respond in a flat voice. “Thanks.”

The door slammed shut. Silence fell over the apartment.

It hit me then, maybe too late—this was a tragic day. One that should’ve ended in sobs.

But when life hits rock bottom, crying feels exhausting.

I sat there for a long time, dry-eyed.

Eventually, I got up and walked into the bathroom. After showering, I stood in front of the mirror, staring.

The face looking back wasn’t stunning, but it wasn’t ugly either. Narrow eyes, the kind Adrian used to love.

He once said, “Lila, your eyes hold stories. When you look at me, my heart aches a little.”

Maybe. I do have a story.

A gambler for a father. A drug addict for a mother. Both dead. I clawed my way up through social services and a full scholarship, and somehow—by some messed-up twist of fate—I ended up dating Adrian Vanderbilt.

To this day, I don’t know what kind of cosmic joke let that happen.

Five years. I could barely remember how they passed.

Every day felt like a dream. A girl with nothing but books became the girlfriend of the most sought-after guy on campus.

Now the dream was over. The woman in the mirror was stripped of glamour, left with seventy-five thousand dollars and a SoHo loft—and cancer.

I didn’t know what to feel.

The apartment was freezing.

I turned on the heater and picked up my phone. Claire Astor had just posted on Instagram.

The caption read: “After everything, you’re still here.”

The photo had an artsy glow—a silhouetted couple kissing in low light.

Even in the shadows, I recognized Adrian’s profile. That face had once knocked the breath out of me.

In the comments, their gold-plated social circle was screaming:

OMG! My favorite couple is back! I’m crying!

Congratulations! You two are perfect together!

Adrian, treat our Claire right. She’s our princess!

Only one comment stood out, awkward and quickly deleted:

Didn’t Adrian have a girlfriend? I remember some scholarship girl from back then… Lila something?

I refreshed. It was gone.

Only Adrian’s reply remained, posted right under Claire’s:

Baby, I’m yours.