Chapter 1 · Divorced, Not Defeated

In our seventh year of marriage, Jeromy Santos cheated on me with the girl he'd always idealized.

And me? I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Ten years together, seven of them married—it all came crashing down.

On the day we finalized the divorce, he showed up at the city hall with his arm around his first love.

The woman stood right in front of me, her eyes—like clear autumn pools—gleaming with barely veiled challenge.

She jabbed a finger at my nose and sneered, "You're just a has-been actress now. So what if you stole Jeromy from me for seven years? He's made it big, and look—he's right back by my side. I ought to thank you for all that time; you shelled out the money, the effort, the connections. It's like he got seven years with a high-end escort for free."

I raised my hand to slap her.

Jeromy immediately scowled and stepped in front of her. "Barbra, that's enough. Don't make me embarrass you in front of everyone. We're divorced now—we're square. From here on out, let's just never cross paths again."

I stared at their backs as they walked away, my throat twisting like it was being scraped by a dull blade.

Square?

The debt you owe me? Oh, we're not done settling that yet.

*****

Last week, while I was showering, I felt a hard lump in my breast and decided to head to the hospital.

The test results came back.

When I saw "Breast Cancer Stage II" printed on the diagnosis report, my mind went completely blank.

The doctor's face was a mix of sympathy and concern. "The lump's already more than 2 inches across, and we've detected metastatic spots in your armpit as well. Based on clinical staging, this is stage IIB breast cancer. The prognosis isn't very optimistic."

My lips trembled, and I opened my mouth, but no words came out for what seemed like an eternity.

The doctor sighed softly and offered gentle reassurance.

"Stage IIB isn't early detection, but it's far from hopeless. I suggest you check in right away for a full evaluation.

"The treatments ahead will take a heavy toll on you, both physically and emotionally. You should notify your family as soon as possible."

I nodded numbly.

When I stood up, my legs gave way, and I nearly crumpled to the floor.

I staggered out of the doctor's office in a fog.

I fished out my phone and dialed Jeromy on autopilot.

A few seconds later, a cold robotic voice answered, "Sorry, the number you are trying to reach is temporarily unavailable..."

I forced a bitter smile, tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I'd almost forgotten.

Three months ago, Jeromy had blocked me on every contact method imaginable.

I massaged my throbbing temples.

In the hospital lobby, I spotted an empty seat and collapsed into it.

Outside the window, cherry blossoms that had bloomed too soon were being torn up by the sharp, chilly wind, swirling and scattering in a chaotic dance.

I scrolled through my WhatsApp contacts, found Jeromy's assistant, and sent a message.

I: [Please tell Jeromy to come home tonight.]

The reply came almost immediately.

[Sorry, Ms. Patterson, Mr. Santos is going to the set tonight to celebrate Ms. Rivas's birthday. He won't have time.]

I clenched my phone until my knuckles whitened.

Swallowing my fury, I typed back: [Tell him to come back and sign the divorce papers!]

Four or five minutes passed before the assistant responded: [Mr. Santos says he'll be home tomorrow night. He hopes you won't try any tricks this time.]

Reading that, a surge of bitterness welled up inside me.

Even through an intermediary, he knew precisely how to push my buttons and throw me off balance.

The hospital was warm, with the heaters blasting.

But I felt like I'd been plunged into an ice-cold pool, chilled to the bone.

The phone screen dimmed and went dark.

As I watched those cherry blossoms drift aimlessly outside, my tears suddenly broke free, streaming down uncontrollably.

Ever since Bridget Rivas returned to the country two years ago, Jeromy and I hadn't known a moment's peace.

Arguments became our everyday reality.

In those two years, I'd become a hysterical shrew—a prickly hedgehog, spines out, always on the prowl for evidence of his affair with Bridget.

I'd rifled through his phone, pored over his dash cam recordings, even hired someone to follow him.

All that bottled-up rage and hurt, day in and day out, had accumulated like a slow poison, seeping deeper into me.

Until it finally manifested as... cancer.

As I thought back now, all the time and energy I'd squandered on him seemed so absurdly laughable.

A soft little hand tugged at my sleeve.

I turned to look.

It was a little girl, maybe four or five years old.

She tilted her head, saying something to me.

That familiar buzzing started up in my left ear, making it hard to catch her words clearly.

Ever since filming that scene with Bridget—where she used the slap as cover to smack me hard enough to rupture my eardrum—this on-and-off tinnitus had plagued me.

I leaned in, angling my right ear toward her.

"What's up, kiddo?"

Only then did I hear how raspy my voice sounded.

In her adorable, lispy voice, she asked, "Why are you crying? Is it because the shot hurts from being sick?"

I blinked in surprise.

Chapter 1

In our seventh year of marriage, Jeromy Santos cheated on me with the girl he'd always idealized.

And me? I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Ten years together, seven of them married—it all came crashing down.

On the day we finalized the divorce, he showed up at the city hall with his arm around his first love.

The woman stood right in front of me, her eyes—like clear autumn pools—gleaming with barely veiled challenge.

I raised my hand to slap her.

I stared at their backs as they walked away, my throat twisting like it was being scraped by a dull blade.

Square?

The debt you owe me? Oh, we're not done settling that yet.

*****

Last week, while I was showering, I felt a hard lump in my breast and decided to head to the hospital.

The test results came back.

When I saw "Breast Cancer Stage II" printed on the diagnosis report, my mind went completely blank.

My lips trembled, and I opened my mouth, but no words came out for what seemed like an eternity.

The doctor sighed softly and offered gentle reassurance.

"Stage IIB isn't early detection, but it's far from hopeless. I suggest you check in right away for a full evaluation.

"The treatments ahead will take a heavy toll on you, both physically and emotionally. You should notify your family as soon as possible."

I nodded numbly.

When I stood up, my legs gave way, and I nearly crumpled to the floor.

I staggered out of the doctor's office in a fog.

I fished out my phone and dialed Jeromy on autopilot.

A few seconds later, a cold robotic voice answered, "Sorry, the number you are trying to reach is temporarily unavailable..."

I forced a bitter smile, tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I'd almost forgotten.

Three months ago, Jeromy had blocked me on every contact method imaginable.

I massaged my throbbing temples.

In the hospital lobby, I spotted an empty seat and collapsed into it.

Outside the window, cherry blossoms that had bloomed too soon were being torn up by the sharp, chilly wind, swirling and scattering in a chaotic dance.

I scrolled through my WhatsApp contacts, found Jeromy's assistant, and sent a message.

I: [Please tell Jeromy to come home tonight.]

The reply came almost immediately.

[Sorry, Ms. Patterson, Mr. Santos is going to the set tonight to celebrate Ms. Rivas's birthday. He won't have time.]

I clenched my phone until my knuckles whitened.

Swallowing my fury, I typed back: [Tell him to come back and sign the divorce papers!]

Four or five minutes passed before the assistant responded: [Mr. Santos says he'll be home tomorrow night. He hopes you won't try any tricks this time.]

Reading that, a surge of bitterness welled up inside me.

Even through an intermediary, he knew precisely how to push my buttons and throw me off balance.

The hospital was warm, with the heaters blasting.

But I felt like I'd been plunged into an ice-cold pool, chilled to the bone.

The phone screen dimmed and went dark.

As I watched those cherry blossoms drift aimlessly outside, my tears suddenly broke free, streaming down uncontrollably.

Ever since Bridget Rivas returned to the country two years ago, Jeromy and I hadn't known a moment's peace.

Arguments became our everyday reality.

In those two years, I'd become a hysterical shrew—a prickly hedgehog, spines out, always on the prowl for evidence of his affair with Bridget.

I'd rifled through his phone, pored over his dash cam recordings, even hired someone to follow him.

All that bottled-up rage and hurt, day in and day out, had accumulated like a slow poison, seeping deeper into me.

Until it finally manifested as... cancer.

As I thought back now, all the time and energy I'd squandered on him seemed so absurdly laughable.

A soft little hand tugged at my sleeve.

I turned to look.

It was a little girl, maybe four or five years old.

She tilted her head, saying something to me.

That familiar buzzing started up in my left ear, making it hard to catch her words clearly.

Ever since filming that scene with Bridget—where she used the slap as cover to smack me hard enough to rupture my eardrum—this on-and-off tinnitus had plagued me.

I leaned in, angling my right ear toward her.

"What's up, kiddo?"

Only then did I hear how raspy my voice sounded.

In her adorable, lispy voice, she asked, "Why are you crying? Is it because the shot hurts from being sick?"

I blinked in surprise.