Cancer - Forsaken by Husband

The fluorescent lights of the exam room at Cedars-Sinai buzzed overhead, the sound drilling into my skull as I stared at the paper trembling in my hands. The words blurred and refocused, but their meaning remained unchanged: late-stage gastric cancer. Metastasized. Inoperable.

Dr. Anya Sharma's voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, floating across the sterile room like it belonged to another conversation, one that couldn't possibly be about me.

"Isabella? Mrs. Mitchell? Are you hearing me?"

I nodded mechanically, though I wasn't sure what she'd just said. Something about treatment options. Chemotherapy. Palliative care. Life expectancy. Words that belonged to old people, to other people. Not to me. Not at thirty-four.

"How long?" I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper.

Dr. Sharma's dark eyes softened with compassion. "With aggressive treatment, perhaps six to eight months. I'm so sorry."

My phone buzzed again—the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. I glanced down reflexively. Ryan's assistant Melanie: *Red carpet starts at 7. Press asking if you'll attend with Ryan. Please confirm ASAP.*

Another buzz. *Stylist needs to know if you're wearing the Valentino or Dior tonight.*

I almost laughed. The Valentino or Dior. As if it mattered now. As if anything about Hollywood's glittering facade mattered when I'd just been handed my death sentence.

Nothing from Ryan himself. Of course.

"Do you have someone with you today?" Dr. Sharma asked gently. "Someone who can drive you home?"

I should have said my husband. I should have been able to say my husband. Instead, I shook my head. "I'll be fine."

The drive back to our Beverly Hills mansion passed in a blur. I pulled through the wrought iron gates, past the manicured gardens that had once filled me with such pride. Now they just seemed like another thing I maintained for appearances—for Ryan's appearances.

The house was empty when I arrived, my footsteps echoing on the marble floors. I found Maria, our housekeeper, in the kitchen.

"Where's Ryan?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Mr. Mitchell called, señora. He's at a pre-production party for the new film. Said not to wait up." She hesitated, her kind eyes studying my face. "Are you okay, Mrs. Mitchell? You look pale."

I wasn't okay. I would never be okay again. But I nodded and forced a smile. "Just tired, Maria. Thank you."

It was New Year's Eve. Once, that had meant something to us. Once, before the fame and the awards and the endless stream of people who wanted pieces of him, we'd celebrated just the two of us. I remembered our first New Year's together in that tiny studio apartment, eating takeout on the floor, Ryan promising me the world while fireworks exploded outside our window.

A sudden, fierce determination seized me. One last normal night. One last attempt to reclaim what we'd lost.

"Maria, I'll be cooking dinner tonight," I announced. "For Ryan and me."

She looked startled. "But Mr. Mitchell—"

"Will be home," I said firmly.