Chapter 2 - The Chemotherapy Log
Dominic did not say another word to his extended family. He didn't acknowledge Sloan, who was now weeping into a cloth napkin near the patio, nor did he look at his uncle Victor, who tried to step into his path with an awkward hand extended. Dominic swept his left arm behind Tessa’s knees and lifted her into his chest before she could protest. She felt horrifyingly light, like a bundle of dry birch twigs wrapped in linen. How had he missed the hollow sharpness of her ribs when he pulled her into bed at midnight? How had he missed the faint metallic scent of hospital chemicals clinging to the roots of her hair?
""Bring the car,"" Dominic barked over his shoulder.
His driver, Marco, was already holding the rear door of the armored Mercedes open by the curb. Dominic slid into the leather seat with Tessa pressed against his ribs, refusing to let her feet touch the pavement. He pulled the silk scarf from his pocket and wrapped it gently around her shoulders, tucking her face into the curve of his neck while the tinted windows rolled up, shutting out the staring crowd.
""Where are your records, Tessa?"" he demanded, his voice thick with an agonizing mix of rage and heartbreak. ""Where do you keep them?""
Tessa leaned her temple against the cool glass, her breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps. ""The walk-in closet. Top shelf. Inside the vintage hatbox you bought me in Rome.""
When they arrived at their gated estate in Gladwyne, the house was silent and cavernous. Dominic carried her straight up the grand staircase to their master suite, laying her down onto the goose-down duvet as if she were spun from sugar glass. He strode into the closet, his polished boots thudding against the hardwood, and dragged down the green velvet box.
Inside lay a thick spiral-bound medical notebook, dozens of pharmacy receipts, and a plastic envelope filled with high-resolution scans. Dominic flipped through the pages with frantic, trembling fingers. He read the clinical jargon that stripped his soul bare: Stage IIIA Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma. High histological grade. Doxorubicin and cyclophosphamide regimen. Paclitaxel maintenance.
Page after page was logged in Tessa’s neat, steady handwriting:
Thursday, March 14: Cycle 3. Nausea severe. Took two antiemetics before Dominic came home from the docks. Made roast beef so the house smelled like food.
Thursday, April 11: Blood counts low. Doctor says platelet transfusion might be needed. Must wear long sleeves; the IV blowout bruised my entire forearm.
Thursday, May 2: Dominic had a meeting with the Moretti syndicate. He looked exhausted. He cannot have a sick wife right now. A sick wife is a liability. A sick wife makes him look weak to the wolves.
May you like
Dominic dropped the notebook onto the oriental rug and dropped to his knees beside the bed. The weight of his own blindness crushed the breath from his lungs. ""Why didn't you tell me?"" he whispered, pressing his forehead into her trembling hands. ""God, Tessa, why would you carry this poison alone?""
""Because men in your world get killed the second they look away,"" she whispered, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. ""If the five families thought you were distracted, if they knew your heart was sitting in an oncology ward being pumped full of red acid, they would have slaughtered you. I was trying to save your life, Dominic.""
