After I was reborn, when Vince Costello’s personal assistant, Bella, once again slipped a dog collar around my neck as a joke while I was sleeping, I didn’t pull out my Glock and press it to her head like I did in my last life. And I didn’t smash half the crystal chandeliers in the Westchester estate and scream for a divorce when Vince defended her. I just sat up, unclasped the damned chain from my neck, and dropped it on the floor. "She's got some nerve," I said to Vince, my voice terrifyingly calm. "You two have fun." I grabbed my trench coat from the nightstand. "I'm done. Happy anniversary." Then I walked out of the bedroom without looking back. I had no choice. My last life was a nightmare after I left Vince. He treated me like a family traitor—all my bank accounts were frozen overnight, every credit card canceled. I searched all over Manhattan for a divorce lawyer willing to take a "gray case" and ended up with a check for forty-eight dollars. The moment they heard the name Costello, they wouldn't even let me in their offices. Worse, right after I escaped New York, I was diagnosed with late-stage adenocarcinoma at a free clinic in New Jersey. The doctor said I had six months, tops. No insurance, no money. The cost of late-stage cancer treatment was astronomical. I tried to apply for Medicaid, but the process was too slow. I contacted several medical charities, but they all rejected me, saying my case "didn't meet priority assistance criteria." The pain devoured me like a wild animal. I survived on ibuprofen from CVS, and then I couldn't even afford that. At my most desperate, I swallowed all my pride and crawled back to Vince’s estate on Long Island. It was a late December night, right after a blizzard. I knelt in the snow outside the iron gates, begging the guard through the intercom to let Vince know I was there. Vince’s voice came through, as cold as ice. "You chose to leave, Ava. It was over the moment you walked out that door. Don't come crawling back." Then he hung up. I collapsed in the snow. My body temperature was dropping, my consciousness fading. In my last moments, I saw him through the iron bars. He had his arm around Bella in the rose garden I had so carefully tended to. They were drinking champagne from the Waterford crystal glasses I had picked out, and then they kissed. I died right outside my own home. So in this life, fuck dignity. Survival is the only thing that matters. … But I didn't expect Vince to follow me. He caught me at the end of the hallway, still in his robe. "Ava, wait." There was a rare urgency in his voice. "Just… hear me out." He paused, as if trying to find the right words. "Bella's young, she doesn't think. The dog collar—I know it was messed up, but it was just a stupid prank." "Her father worked for my father. She’s seen me as family since we were kids. She doesn’t know boundaries," he said, rubbing his brow. "You are my wife. Don't let her get to you." He had said those exact same words in my last life. Back then, Bella had just burned the back of my hand with a Zippo lighter custom-made for the Costello family, the one with their crest engraved on it. I was shaking from the pain, and hearing Vince's casual defense of her made me snap. I pulled the Glock 19 he’d given me from my waistband and fired three shots into the marble floor at his feet. Shards of stone flew everywhere. All the core family members were there, including his father. "We're done!" I shrieked, then stormed out of the estate.
Thinking back now, I was so stupid. Did I really think a woman who was an artist could threaten the boss of New York's biggest crime family? The reality was, as I walked all night in the winter rain, my Louboutins rubbing my ankles raw and my fever spiking to 103... as I curled up waiting to die in a cheap motel on the Lower East Side, Vince didn't even send anyone to look for me. He flew to Sicily with Bella that same night. A picture of him adjusting her gun holster and a video of her kissing his cheek on tiptoe spread through the family's encrypted chat groups the next day. It was sickeningly ironic. I couldn't help but let out a cold laugh. Seeing my expression, Vince suddenly yanked his hand away from my wrist. "I'm tired of repeating myself, Ava," he said, his voice turning cold. "Bella’s father was loyal to my father. I look out for her because of that. Nothing more." "It's just a mark on your neck. Put some Neosporin on it. It'll be gone in two days." His eyes grew distant. "Stop imagining things between us. You're being paranoid." I saw the chill in his eyes, and a bitter feeling rose in my chest. Not for him. For that foolish woman in my past life. In my past life, after I left him, the cancer tormented me beyond belief. The chemo side effects made me vomit blood every day. When the pain hit, I would claw at the walls until my fingernails broke. I lived in a moldy basement in New Jersey that cost four hundred dollars a month and didn't even have heat. I was so broke that I even went to a pawn shop to sell the engagement ring he gave me—a three-carat black diamond Tiffany custom piece engraved with the Costello family crest. The pawn shop owner offered five thousand dollars. I stared at that ring for a full ten minutes before putting it back in my pocket. When the doctor told me I had a month left, I dragged my eighty-pound body onto the Long Island Rail Road for a two-hour ride back to the estate. I told myself he had once knelt in the blood of my parents and sworn to protect me for the rest of my life. Maybe… maybe he still remembered. But when the guard announced me, Vince's voice came through the intercom, as calm as if he were talking about the weather. "She made her choice. Tell her to leave." I knelt outside the iron gate, my forehead pressed against the cold metal bars. "Vince, please…" My voice was so hoarse I could barely speak. "I'm dying. I just want to… see you one more time." Only static came from the intercom. Then he hung up. I knelt there in the snow until all the warmth left my body. In my final moment, I saw him and Bella in the rose garden. The roses were David Austins I had ordered from Portland, the ones I pruned and fertilized every weekend. They clinked the Waterford crystal glasses I had chosen, and then they kissed. In that moment, the death of my heart hurt more than the cancer. Now, I quickly composed myself. "I'm not jealous, Vince," I said calmly. "And I'm not mad at Bella." "I'm just tired. I need some space." I looked at him. "You should get back to your guests. It's your anniversary party, after all." A flicker of shock crossed Vince's face. He probably didn't expect me to be so calm. Without another glance, I turned and walked toward the night-shrouded driveway. The estate's security lights cast my shadow long behind me. I heard him call my name, but I didn't turn back. This time, I just want to live. Nothing else matters.
It was two in the morning by the time I got back to the SoHo penthouse. Vince bought the apartment for me after we got married—a 4,000-square-foot loft in a converted 1920s industrial building, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking all of lower Manhattan. Only my name was on the deed. It was part of the prenup. His legal team spent three months drafting the two-hundred-page document. I bolted the door and the first thing I did was text my private doctor. Need a full cancer screening. Tomorrow morning, if possible. Paying cash. At 2:30 a.m., she replied. There's an opening at Memorial Sloan Kettering at 7 a.m. I'll arrange it. Is everything okay? Memorial Sloan Kettering. The best cancer hospital in New York. Last time, I couldn't even get in the door. I replied: Just a check-up. Thanks, Dr. Chen. Putting my phone down, I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Manhattan skyline was a sea of lights. This city never sleeps—even now, there were taxis and people on the streets. I used to love this city. When I was at RISD, I would take the Amtrak to New York every weekend, wandering through the galleries in SoHo and the art districts in Brooklyn. Then I gave it all up for Vince. RISD offered me a full scholarship for my master's. I turned it down. A curator at MoMA saw my work and wanted to give me a solo show. I turned that down, too. I spent all my time learning how to be a "proper mob boss's wife"—how to cook Italian food, how to taste wine, how to maintain a polite smile at family gatherings. How ridiculous. My phone suddenly buzzed. Vince was back. He pushed the door open, yanking off his tie, his brow furrowed with annoyance. "What the hell was that, Ava?" "You embarrassed me in front of everyone. Just walking out like that?" Ever since Bella became his "special assistant," Vince had become increasingly harsh with me. He could find fault in anything I did—the coffee was too weak, the dinner too salty, the dress I was wearing "inappropriate for a family event." In my last life, it was his change in attitude, coupled with Bella’s constant provocations, that made me lose control time and time again. I suppressed the tightness in my chest. "Vince, believe it or not, I'm not throwing a tantrum." "Look." I pulled down the collar of my shirt, revealing the ligature mark already hidden by foundation. "I've already covered it up. So no, I'm not holding a grudge." He froze for a second. "I just need to get some sleep. That's all." With that, I went into the bathroom and locked the door. When I came out of the shower, Vince was gone. But my burner phone was buzzing nonstop. Bella. It was her habit—whenever she was with Vince, she’d send me pictures. Using my phone as her personal photo album. In my last life, I would break down crying or storm into Vince’s office every time I saw them. Now, I opened the message. The first photo: they were in the study at the estate. Vince was looking at documents, and Bella was standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders. The second: in the car, Bella taking a selfie while Vince drove. The third: Bella holding a champagne glass, with the estate's terrace in the background. I calmly typed back. Wrong angle. The shadow on his left cheek is more flattering. Hold the phone higher. And there's too much empty space in the second one. Makes you two look distant. A few seconds later, Bella replied. Did someone hack your account??? I sent a smiley face emoji. Nope. Just a friendly tip—Vince is all yours now. I closed the chat. Then I blocked her. Putting my phone down, I felt a wave of relief I’d never felt before. This love triangle was fine by me: I wanted the status of being the Costello family matriarch and the unlimited AmEx Black Card. As for Vince's body and soul, Bella could have them. Unlike last time, when I was foolish enough to believe love could conquer all.
After dealing with Bella, I lay down and tried to sleep. But I couldn't. Even reborn, the nightmares still came. I dreamt of my teenage years again. Back then, we lived in Red Hook, Brooklyn—a neighborhood filled with dockworkers and Italian immigrants. My family lived on Third Avenue, Vince’s across the street. His father was the former boss of the Costello family, known for his iron fist. Because Vince was quiet and withdrawn, he was disciplined harshly from a young age. Late at night, I could often hear sounds from their training yard across the street—the crack of a whip, gunshots, and low, stern reprimands. He’d get beaten every time he failed his combat training or shooting drills. I always felt sorry for him back then. So whenever I got candy, I would secretly slip it into the pocket of the coat he left hanging on his door, along with a sticky note. Eat one. It helps. The first time he caught me, his ears turned bright red. "I… I don't like sweets." I just smiled and waved my hand. "Then don't eat it. But Vince, you should talk more. You have a nice voice." It became our routine. The boy who was always alone started waiting for me. We would walk together down the cobblestone alleys of Red Hook, and sit on the edge of the abandoned pier to watch the sunset. Then, the year he turned eighteen, right before he was sent to a private academy in Switzerland as the family heir, he came to find me. He handed me a brochure for the Rhode Island School of Design. "I looked it up. The security is good, and it's close to where I'll be based." He paused. "Your grades might not get you into the undergrad program, but… there's a pre-college program. A summer session. I can pay the tuition." I never told him my parents had already planned to send me to Florence to study art. They were successful gallery owners and could easily afford it. But I secretly changed my application and chose RISD. My father yelled at me for an hour, but I never regretted it. Later, we ended up in the same region—he was in New Haven, Connecticut, "learning the family business," while I was studying art in Providence, Rhode-I. Free from his father's control, Vince became a different person. He ditched his thick glasses for contacts, cut his hair short, and started wearing Tom Ford suits. He even learned to play Chopin and Rachmaninoff. I didn't know why he changed. Until one day, I was celebrating in my studio at RISD for my upcoming solo exhibition when he suddenly appeared at the door. His eyes were red. "I changed everything for you," he said, grabbing my wrist. "Can't you just… look at me?" "I'm in love with you, Ava. I have been since we were kids." In that moment, my heart felt like it had been shot. Of course, I’d heard the rumors about him—how he’d cleaned out family traitors at sixteen, taken over half the East Coast arms trade at eighteen, and was already considered the next boss by twenty. Countless women documented his "transformation" on anonymous, Gossip Girl-style forums, complete with candid photos. I thought a world of blood separated us. But he said he was in love with me. Without thinking, I stood on my toes and kissed him.
We got together after that. I spent all my time researching how to brew his Lavazza coffee, how to pick out Hermès cufflinks, how to choose Blue Note jazz vinyls. My life had no plan; it just revolved around him. Meanwhile, Vince's life continued its meteoric rise. He consolidated the family's power, eliminated his rivals, and was officially crowned Don at twenty-three. Even the New York Post reported on it—though they didn't dare call him a "mob boss," just a "shipping magnate." It was an ironic contrast to me. I gave up my art and became his accessory. Even more cruelly, my parents were killed by a car bomb planted by his enemies on their way to see my art show. The NYPD ruled it an "accidental explosion due to vehicle malfunction." But I knew the truth—my father's gallery had once refused to launder money for a rival family. Now an orphan, I clutched their charred belongings and cried until I passed out. Vince knelt before me in the funeral home in Brooklyn, under his father's grim gaze, and swore he would take care of me for the rest of my life. A month later, we got married at City Hall. No wedding, no guests. Just two witnesses—his lawyer and my best friend. After we married, I had multiple miscarriages. The first at six weeks, the second at ten, the third at thirteen. The doctors said my body was "unsuitable for pregnancy" and suggested surrogacy or adoption. Vince said it was okay, but I could see his father's disappointment. The Costello family needed an heir. My health deteriorated. Insomnia, anxiety, depression. Until Vince met Bella. She was the daughter of his father's most trusted man, studying international relations and criminology at Columbia University. She interned at Vince's "company" and quickly became his special assistant. She could discuss the arms market, turf wars, and how to handle FBI investigations with him. She could accompany him to any bloody scene—underground fights, smuggling docks, family "clean-ups." All I could ask him was, "What do you want for dinner?" or "Does this tie match this suit?" He started to find me empty. I could see it. My eyes started to burn. When I opened them, it was already light out. The pillow was wet again. There was a text from Vince on my phone. Going to see the old man this afternoon. Connecticut. Be ready by two. I looked at the message and replied calmly. Can't make it. The phone rang immediately. "Why?" Vince's voice was tight with suppressed anger. "Ava, seriously. There's nothing going on with Bella and me. Why are you still stuck on this?" Hearing him bring up Bella again, unprompted, made me want to laugh. Vince was always a man of few words. This was the first time he'd ever explained something so many times. Was he trying to convince me, or himself? A sharp pain shot through my chest. "I don't feel well. I have a doctor's appointment." I paused. "Besides, your father has a heart condition. He never liked me—said I was too 'artsy' for this family. Why raise his blood pressure?" "And anyway…" my tone was even, "doesn't he always say someone like Bella is a better fit for you? You should take her." I was genuinely suggesting it. But Vince exploded. "Fine. Keep throwing your tantrum. Just don't come crying to me later." He hung up. I listened to the dial tone and laughed out loud. See, that's the difference between being loved and not. The Vince who used to love me would panic if I so much as frowned, asking if he'd done something wrong. The Vince who didn't love me anymore thought I was throwing a tantrum even when I was giving him sincere advice.
I didn't waste any time. I took an Uber straight to Memorial Sloan Kettering on the Upper East Side. I turned off my phone and left it in the apartment. I was afraid it would mess with my head. This check-up was about whether I would repeat my past mistakes. I arrived at seven in the morning, right on time. The Memorial Sloan Kettering building was a fortress of glass and steel at the corner of 68th and York. This was the top cancer treatment center in the country—if there was a cure for cancer, it was in this building. When the receptionist saw the name "Costello" on my appointment, her attitude shifted immediately. "Mrs. Costello, Dr. Chen is waiting for you. Please follow me to the VIP area." The VIP area was on the twelfth floor. It was decorated like a five-star hotel—teak floors, modern art on the walls, a Nespresso machine, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River. It was a world away from the free clinic I went to in New Jersey in my last life. That clinic was in an industrial area of Newark. The plastic chairs in the waiting room were cracked, the fluorescent lights flickered, and the air always smelled of disinfectant and sweat. I had to wait in line for three or four hours every time, just to see a doctor for ten minutes. And their equipment was ancient—the CT machine was from the 1990s and sometimes jammed. It took a week to get results, but the bill was still thousands of dollars. In my last life, I had no insurance. Vince froze all my accounts after the divorce, including my health insurance. I tried to apply for Medicaid, but the process took three months, and I couldn't wait that long. I had to sell everything—my Hermès bags, my Cartier watch, my Tiffany jewelry. I sold each piece for a fraction of its worth because I needed the cash. In the end, I even took my wedding ring to a pawn shop. The owner was a bald Jewish man with thick glasses. He looked at the three-carat black diamond ring with a magnifying glass for a long time before offering five thousand dollars. "The market price is at least a hundred and fifty thousand," I said. "Market price is market price, cash is cash," he shrugged. "Do you want the money or not?" I held the ring, my fingers trembling. In the end, I put it back in my pocket. I'd rather die than sell it. How pathetic. Now, Dr. Chen walked into the exam room, holding an iPad. She was in her forties, Chinese-American, a Columbia Med school graduate, and the chief of oncology at MSK. "Ava," she said, sitting down with a serious expression. "I'll be direct. When you texted me at two in the morning asking for an emergency screening, I was very worried." "Is there something you haven't told me? Any symptoms?" I took a deep breath. "I just… have a bad feeling. Family history, you know." It was a lie, of course. But I couldn't exactly say, "I died of cancer in my last life, so I'd like to get checked." Dr. Chen nodded. "Alright. We'll do a full workup. CT, MRI, bloodwork—tumor markers, genetic testing, everything. I've also scheduled you for a PET scan and an endoscopy." "Given your request, I'm treating this as a high priority. Preliminary results will be back in three days." Three days. In my last life, it took a week just to get CT results. For the next ten days, I stayed in a VIP room at MSK. The room was like a hotel suite—king-sized bed, private bathroom, Netflix, and gourmet meals three times a day. The window looked out over the East River, and in the evening, the sunset would paint the entire room gold. I underwent all sorts of tests: CT, MRI, PET scan, colonoscopy, endoscopy, bone marrow biopsy. Every time they drew blood, the nurse used the thinnest needle and applied a numbing cream first. "You'll barely feel a thing, Mrs. Costello."
In my last life, at that clinic in New Jersey, the nurse used a thick needle and would miss the vein on the first try, leaving my arm covered in purple bruises. This is what money does in the American healthcare system. If you have money, you get a VIP room, the latest drugs, and the best doctors. If you don't, you wait in line for four hours, use outdated equipment, and want to cry when you see the bill. On the tenth day, Dr. Chen came with the report. She sat down by my bed, her expression complicated. "Ava, I have news. And it's… a bit complex." My heart skipped a beat. "We found something. Adenocarcinoma. But it's early—Stage 1A, to be exact." "The tumor is small, localized, and hasn't spread to the lymph nodes. The survival rate after treatment is over 90%." She paused. "I'm so sorry. I know this is terrifying. But you caught it incredibly early. Most people are asymptomatic at this stage." As I listened to her, tears suddenly welled up in my eyes. But they weren't tears of fear. They were tears of relief. I finally have a chance to live. "Can… can you treat it?" my voice trembled. "Of course. We'll start with surgery to remove the tumor, followed by adjuvant chemotherapy to clear out any remaining cancer cells. Given the early stage, we can use targeted therapies with minimal side effects." She took my hand. "Ava, you're going to be okay. I promise." I signed the treatment consent forms that day. The surgery was scheduled for a week later. Chemo would start after I recovered. Dr. Chen created a personalized treatment plan for me—the latest targeted drug, Keytruda, combined with a low-dose chemo regimen. Six cycles, once every three weeks. "The side effects will be managed," she said. "Hair loss, fatigue, some nausea. But not as severe as traditional chemo. We'll monitor you closely." The cost was astronomical. Surgery: one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Chemotherapy: thirty-five thousand per session, totaling two hundred and ten thousand for six. Targeted therapy: forty thousand a month, for a total of two hundred and forty thousand over six months. Hospital stay: The VIP room was twenty-five hundred a day, estimated at seventy-five thousand for a month. The grand total: over six hundred thousand dollars. When the nurse gave me the bill, she said cautiously, "Mrs. Costello, we can set up a payment plan if you need…" I pulled out the American Express Black Card. "Put it all on the card." She stared for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. I'll process that right away." In my last life, I couldn't even afford a ten-thousand-dollar down payment. That New Jersey clinic demanded cash upfront before they would operate. I begged them with the five thousand dollars I got from selling my jewelry, but they refused. "We need at least a 50% deposit, ma'am. It's hospital policy." I knelt in the billing office, crying and pleading with the financial administrator. "Please. I'm dying. I'll find a way to pay, I swear…" She looked at me with pity, but mostly helplessness. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I don't make the rules." In the end, I had to forgo the surgery and live on painkillers. I bought them on the gray market—expired OxyContin, ten dollars a pill. I only took one when the pain was unbearable because I couldn't afford more. Now, I lay in my bed at Memorial Sloan Kettering, looking out at the New York skyline. This time, I have money, the best doctors, and a chance to live. But at what cost? Being tied to a man who no longer loves me. Is it worth it? I looked at the wedding ring on my finger. The black diamond glittered in the sunlight, cold and beautiful. It's worth it. To live, everything is worth it.
The surgery was a success. Dr. Chen removed the tumor, and the lymph node biopsy showed no spread. "Clean margins," she said. "We got it all." Recovery took two weeks. Then chemo began. The first session was on a Wednesday morning. The nurse took me to the infusion center—a bright room with a dozen reclining chairs, each with an IV stand beside it. The windows overlooked the East River, and Monet prints hung on the walls. Soft music played from a Spotify playlist—Norah Jones, Coldplay, Bon Iver. The nurse set up my IV, and the drugs began to drip into my veins. Keytruda and a low dose of Carboplatin. I felt nothing for the first two hours. In the third hour, the nausea started. The nurse immediately gave me an anti-nausea shot of Zofran. The sickness eased, but it lingered. In the fourth hour, fatigue washed over me like a tidal wave. I closed my eyes, listening to the drip of the IV machine, feeling my body in a tug-of-war with death. The side effects were a little worse than Dr. Chen had described. Week one: Nausea, vomiting, total exhaustion. I could only manage small amounts of plain porridge and crackers. Anything else made me want to throw up. Week two: My hair started falling out. First a few strands, then handfuls. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at the clumps in the drain, and cried. Week three: Mouth sores, loss of taste, numbness in my hands and feet. I couldn't even drink water and had to get fluids through an IV. But I didn't experience the soul-crushing pain of my last life. Because it was early stage. Because I was on the best drugs. Because I had money. After the second cycle, I had lost fifteen pounds. Dr. Chen suggested I shave my head. "It's all going to fall out anyway. Better to take control of the process." She was right. I had a stylist come to my hospital room and shave it all off. Looking at my bald self in the mirror, I smiled. "Not bad. Very Furiosa." The nurse laughed. "You're handling this better than most patients, Mrs. Costello." I didn't tell her this was my second time with cancer. I already had my breakdown in the last life. This time, I just wanted to live. Before the third cycle, I needed to pay for the next round of treatment. A nurse came to my room to notify me. "Mrs. Costello, we need to process the payment for your next cycle. The total is seventy-three thousand, five hundred dollars." I nodded and took out the black card. She took it to run the charge. Five minutes later, she returned, looking embarrassed. "Um… Mrs. Costello, the card was declined. The system says the account has been frozen." I froze for a second. Then I smiled. Of course. Vince froze the card. I put my coat on over my hospital gown, slipped on a wig (a gift from a nurse who said it would make me "look less scary"), and took an Uber to Vince's headquarters in Midtown Manhattan. The Costello "Shipping Corporation" headquarters was on Fifth Avenue, a 1930s Art Deco building, thirty stories high, with Vince’s office on the top floor. When I reached the entrance, security immediately stopped me. "Ma'am, do you have an appointment with Mr. Costello?" I looked at him—he was in his twenties, Italian-American, clearly new to the family business. I pulled my marriage certificate out of my purse. "Does this work?" He glanced at it, and his face changed. "Mrs. Costello. I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you. Please, this way." He led me through the marble lobby to a private elevator that went to the top floor. Every employee we passed stared at me. I knew what I looked like—bald (the wig wasn't sitting right), in a hospital gown, thin as a piece of paper, with the tape from an IV still on the back of my hand. I looked like a walking corpse. But I didn't care. In my last life, after the divorce, I came to this building to try to borrow money. But back then, I didn't even make it past the front door before security threw me out. Because all I had was a divorce decree, not a marriage certificate. The elevator reached the thirtieth floor. As the doors opened, I could hear laughter and chatter from the office area. "So, Miss Bella, is it true the boss is finally divorcing that wife of his? About time, I say." "Right? I've worked here for three years and I've never even seen her. Heard she's just some artist. An orphan, too. She was lucky to marry him." "Yeah, last time the boss met with that Russian arms dealer, the guy kept asking where you were, Miss Bella. Said the boss wouldn't even touch his vodka without you there to toast with him." Bella chuckled lightly. "Come on, guys. The boss and I are just colleagues. My father trusts him, that's why I'm here." "But…" She paused. "A divorce? It won't be long." I stood in the hallway, listening to this conversation, a sarcastic smile playing on my lips. The difference between being loved and not? Before Bella came along, Vince forbade anyone from gossiping in the office. Anyone who broke the rule was fired immediately. But now, they could be so casual. I pushed the door open and walked into the office. Everyone turned to look at me, their faces filled with shock. I said calmly, "Sorry to disappoint you all. Your boss won't be getting a divorce." "He'll be a widower first."
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