1

In the third month of our marriage, Isabella dragged me onto the Costa Foundation's charity week livestream.

Everyone online knew she couldn't stand me.

Victor had turned down an arranged marriage with a woman from an old-money Boston family to marry me. I was an ordinary girl whose heart could give out at any time.

To Isabella, I was a manipulative fraud who didn't have long to live anyway.

Before the opening dinner, the crew sent us to hand out supplies in a low-income Bronx neighborhood.

Isabella walked ahead in four-inch heels. I'd only made it two blocks before my vision started to go dark and cold sweat soaked through my shirt.

Rachel, the head of PR, asked me quietly, "Mrs. Costa, do you want to rest in the car?"

I shook my head. "No, I can keep going."

Isabella glanced back with a sneer. "The cameras come on, and suddenly you're out of breath? You have plenty of energy when you're making Victor run around after you."

The comments lit up instantly.

[Victor spends enough on her to keep an ordinary person alive for several lifetimes, and she can't walk a few blocks?]

[Guess she wants Isabella to carry her.]

I didn't explain.

I'd had only half a glass of water since morning. Hotel breakfast was too expensive, and the crew's rules barred us from using our family accounts during filming. We could only use our own allowances.

My prepaid card got only $200 a month, and this month it was down to seven dollars. I had to save that for emergency medicine.

When we reached the center of the square, Rachel had us face the camera and read the charity week slogan.

I'd just forced a smile when a sharp ringing filled my ears.

Then my knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the cobblestones.

When I woke up, I was in the medical tent, hooked up to an IV. Isabella sat beside me, her face cold.

"If she's fine, get her up. She's had heart trouble since she was a kid, and she's always been great at fainting to get her way."

Dr. Rossi looked at the lab results and frowned.

"Severe hypoglycemia and anemia, along with long-term protein and nutrient deficiencies. She hasn't refilled her heart medication in at least three months."

Isabella sat up straight. "That's impossible. She has a private doctor and a nutritionist. Her medical budget alone is two million dollars a month."

"There's nothing in her stomach but water, and blood tests don't lie."

The comments were still mocking me.

[She's faking, right? Mrs. Costa, malnourished? Who'd believe that?]

[Don't tell me she planted the doctor too?]

[Two million a month, and she still starved herself like this?]

Isabella clearly thought so too.

She came over and dug through my bag for my phone so she could call my medical team at home.

She hadn't found my phone yet when she pulled out a crumpled, half-empty pack of glucose tablets.

"This is all you brought?"

"I took half this morning. I'm saving the rest for when I start shaking or my heart races. They help me hold on a little longer."

Then she pulled out the prepaid card and the three declined-payment slips. Rachel checked the balance on the spot.

Seven dollars.

Isabella let out an exasperated laugh.

"Elena, Victor gives you two million dollars a month. Who are you trying to fool with a card that has only seven dollars on it?"

I blinked at her. "It's not two million. Marco, Victor's assistant, told me I only get $200 a month. A box of my medicine costs several hundred dollars, so I stopped taking it. If I avoid anything strenuous, I shouldn't die right away."

A sudden silence fell over the tent.

Isabella stared at me for a few seconds, then called her brother.

"Victor, you only give your wife $200 a month?"

The video call connected quickly.

Victor was in a conference room, his brows drawn tight.

"What do you mean, $200?

"I sign off on two million dollars for her every month, and I've never pulled her medical team!"