Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN HE THOUGHT WAS DYINGI stared at the medical document until the words stopped making sense.
Patient prognosis: less than six months.
My doctor had never said that.
My treatment was difficult, and my future was uncertain, but nobody had given me a six-month prognosis.
More importantly, nobody had authorized my husband to distribute private medical information to investors.
I called Margaret immediately.
"Is this real?"
"We don't know where it originated," she replied. "The document appears to be a summary prepared for a financial transaction, not a hospital record."
"Caleb told people I was dying?"
"The paperwork certainly suggests someone wanted them to believe that."
I felt sick.
Not from chemotherapy this time.
From rage.
For months, Caleb had told me to remain positive.
He complained when I cried.
He criticized me when I was exhausted.
And all the while, he may have been telling business partners that I had only months left to live.
"Can we stop him?"
"We've already notified the lender that ownership and authorization are disputed. Your medical information should never have been used this way. We're also examining whether the documents were falsified."
"Will he be arrested?"
"That isn't something I can promise. We need evidence and the appropriate authorities will decide."
I appreciated Margaret's restraint.
She never offered dramatic guarantees.
She offered facts.
And facts were becoming more powerful than anything Caleb had ever said to me.
The following morning, Gabriel called.
"I heard about the documents," he said.
"Margaret told you?"
"Only that the transaction has a serious authorization problem. She hasn't shared your private information."
I was relieved.
"Then why are you calling?"
"Because I want you to know something. Sullivan Capital is withdrawing from the proposed purchase until ownership and authority can be independently established."
I sat upright.
"What does that mean?"
"It means we won't buy property from someone who cannot prove he has the right to sell it."
"Caleb will be furious."
"Probably."
"Doesn't that concern you?"
Gabriel paused.
"Not nearly as much as buying stolen property would."
I surprised myself by laughing.
It was a small sound.
But it was the first genuine laugh I'd managed in days.
Gabriel didn't ask me out.
He didn't make promises.
He didn't try to turn my suffering into a romantic opportunity.
He simply said, "I hope your treatment goes well this week."
Then he hung up.
That simplicity stayed with me.
Two weeks passed.
Caleb remained in Miami longer than planned.
Vanessa posted photographs from restaurants, yacht decks, and rooftop lounges.
Eventually, I stopped looking.
Hannah helped me move into her guest room.
I left the penthouse quietly, taking my clothes, personal documents, and the small wooden watch box my father had made when I graduated from architecture school.
I photographed the condition of the apartment before leaving.
Everything else could be dealt with through attorneys.
On my third chemotherapy appointment after Caleb's departure, I received another surprise.
Gabriel's mother was sitting near the treatment area.
Her name was Eleanor Sullivan.
She had silver hair, a warm smile, and a habit of wearing colorful silk scarves.
"You're Natalie," she said.
I nodded.
"Gabriel told me you designed the children's wing at St. Catherine's."
I smiled.
"Your son mentioned your daughter."
Her expression softened.
"My beautiful Rebecca."
We sat together while waiting for our appointments.
Eleanor told me about her daughter, who loved painting and hated hospitals until she discovered the colorful murals in the children's wing.
"She used to sit beside that enormous window overlooking the garden," Eleanor said. "She said it made her feel as though the world was still going on outside."
I swallowed.
That window had been my idea.
Caleb once called it an unnecessary expense.
My father had defended me.
"People need sunlight most when they're surrounded by darkness," Dad told him.
Eleanor squeezed my hand.
"Thank you for giving my daughter that window."
Tears filled my eyes.
I had spent months feeling useless.
As if cancer had erased everything I had ever accomplished.
But here was a woman telling me that something I created had mattered.
Not because it made money.
Not because it impressed wealthy investors.
Because it brought comfort to someone who needed it.
After that day, Eleanor and I became friends.
We exchanged books, complained about hospital food, and laughed at terrible television shows.
Some mornings, we barely talked.
We simply sat together.
One afternoon, she said, "You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"My younger self."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Should I be worried?"
She grinned.
"Only if you're afraid of becoming stubborn."
I laughed.
Then she became serious.
"Don't spend your second chance trying to prove your worth to people who couldn't recognize it the first time."
I carried those words home.
Meanwhile, Caleb's messages grew increasingly hostile.
At first, he demanded that I reverse the account restrictions.
Then he accused me of sabotaging the company.
Finally, he threatened divorce.
I responded with one sentence.
Please direct all legal and financial communications to my attorney.
Three days later, Margaret filed my divorce petition.
Caleb called seventeen times.
I answered none of them.
Then Martin Ellis sent a letter accusing me of malicious interference with legitimate business operations.
Margaret responded with a detailed request for documents.
Within forty-eight hours, Martin stopped communicating directly with me.
I thought that meant we were making progress.
I was wrong.
One rainy Thursday afternoon, I returned from treatment to find a message from an unknown number.
You think your new billionaire friend will save you?
A second message followed.
Ask him what happened to his wife.
I stared at my phone.
Gabriel had never mentioned a wife.
I didn't even know whether he had been married.
I showed the messages to Hannah.
"Someone's trying to scare you," she said.
"Then why mention Gabriel?"
"Because Caleb knows you have support, and he hates it."
I wanted to believe her.
But the message bothered me.
The following weekend, I met Eleanor for tea.
We were sitting in a small café when Gabriel arrived to pick her up.
He wore a dark sweater and looked tired.
Eleanor excused herself to speak with the cashier.
I decided not to avoid the question.
"Gabriel, were you married?"
He looked surprised.
"Yes."
"What happened?"
His expression changed.
"My wife died five years ago."
My stomach dropped.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked like that."
He shook his head.
"It's all right."
For a moment, he stared out the window.
"Her name was Caroline. She died in a car accident."
I thought about the anonymous message.
"Someone told me to ask you about her."
Gabriel looked at me sharply.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
I showed him the texts.
The color drained from his face.
"Where did you get these?"
I explained.
He studied the number, then handed back my phone.
"Natalie, there's something you should know."
My heart began pounding.
"What?"
He lowered his voice.
"Before Caroline died, she was investigating financial misconduct at a development company."
I stared at him.
"Which company?"
He looked directly into my eyes.
"Hayes Development Group."
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Gabriel said something that made the café around us seem to disappear.
May you like
"Your husband was the last person Caroline called before her accident."
And I suddenly wondered whether the man who had abandoned me during chemotherapy was hiding something far worse than an affair.
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