The heart inside my chest cavity burns as I consider what it would mean if I actually keep the money and continue this ruse. Can I do it? Would anyone know the difference? I imagine the all-black Oscar de la Renta gown I purchased for my engagement photos years ago. I could post a selfie wearing that—heck, maybe even visit the local cemetery while I do it for good measure and share it with my followers. I imagine the viral sensation it would cause and probably make me even more money. After all, people love to support a cause, and I have been sharing quality content in the way of inspiring captions to brighten all of their feeds day after day for years.
I deserve this.
The more I think about it, the more I realize this isn’t a bump in the road of my career. I’ll only have to pivot the tone of my content for a while as I mourn the loss. My blood hums with energy as I begin to strategize my way out of this small snafu. And I can. I’m the master of the pivot. I managed to pivot Dean away from his wife, his lucrative career… I can do this. And it will only be temporary. Just long enough to get back on my feet and get that online life-coaching element of my brand off the ground.
I log in to my email inbox, hoping to find something from that advertiser offering a commission. But instead, I find something better. I find that my Patreon page has exploded with new subscribers. For $10 a month, my subscribers get extra content like shopping lists and exclusive get-ready-with-me videos and product reviews. Before now, I was struggling to make a few hundred dollars off the Patreon each month. But overnight,my subscribers have ballooned to eight hundred people. I gasp, realizing that’s $8,000 I’ll make per month, as long as they remain subscribed. It’s easier to keep the subscribers you have than generate new ones, and these people have fallen into my lap. I just needed a little tragedy to motivate them to support me.
Relief loosens my tense muscles as I realize I’ll be okay. Thanks to these good Samaritans, I don’t need Dean’s money. I may not be able to afford the fancy shopping sprees anymore—that Oscar de la Renta gown was more than $8,000 alone—but I’ve already adapted to living a luxe life on a budget, thanks to Dean’s failing business.
My soon-to-be-ex may have thrown me an entire truck of sour lemons yesterday, but my followers have helped me turn them into the sweetest lemonade. Death has given me life. Gratitude overwhelms me, and with a smile, I log in to my bank account and already find thousands of dollars pending deposit. It’s like the darkness that weighed me down previously is illuminated. I feel free of the burden of my marriage, unchained from the stigma of divorce. I am a widow, as simple as that.
I think I’ll take myself out to coffee this morning to celebrate my newfound success. I am the master of the pivot after all. Now, I’ll just have to brainstorm a few posts to keep the lie alive for a while longer, and then I can move on with my life.
Mia Starr’s husband is dead, and I couldn’t be happier.
Chapter Five
72 hours.
It’s been 72 hours since cancer stole the love of my life. My heart breaks with every breath. To my husband: thank you for loving me enough to finally love myself. Thank you for teaching me that love is loss and that nothing in this world is permanent. Loving you was worth the pain of losing you. I know we’ll meet again someday, my love. RIP.
I spend a minute rereading the carefully curated caption. It’s emotional yet full of gratitude. I think it hits just the right note for my followers. I’ve been in a suspended state of grieving—or at least, I’ve been trying to pretend to be. And I don’t have to pretend very hard. Iamgrieving the loss of my marriage. I’m grieving the loss of a relationship with a narcissistic bastard who traded me in for someone younger, fresher, more beautiful than I ever was. A model, of all things. I could never compete with her.
I sigh as I swipe through the photos I took this morning at the cemetery. The elegant black Oscar de la Renta gown strikes just the right tone. My favorite shot is one from behind. The full skirt falls in waves of taffeta from my waist, and a black lace veil cascades down my back and hides my face. I look like a mafia widow. It’s dramatic. But then, everything in my life is, so why go understated now? I will grieve the loss of this man for the rest of my life and will do anything to prevent this pain from seeping into my bloodstream again.
It doesn’t help that the bastard reached out to me after my first post three days ago. I knew he followed me on social media. I should have blocked him the moment he walked out the door, but in my defense, I had no idea one mistyped caption would cause my life to implode like it has. Dean didn’t even seem mad about the post—he’d only text messaged me with a screenshot of my post of the wine bottle and added a simpleDon’t forget to claim these donations as assets in the divorce LOL.
I didn’t answer him, but I did immediately block him from seeing anything else. That won’t stop him from creating a new account if he wants to, but I don’t think he would do something like that. Dean has a habit of mostly avoiding confrontation until he can’t anymore. I have a feeling he’s just glad to have me out of his life. He was looking to the future, and so was I. I just had to get over this mourning phase, and then I could use my expanding following to further maximize profit. I could even talk to the financial manager Dean used and ask him to invest my money so that one day I could actually retire off this gig. Dean may have left me, but I’m not about to ruin my financial future on top of everything else.
I suck in a ragged breath and then hit submit on the post before killing the app and tossing my phone onto the couch next to me. The glass guy is due in an hour to fix the gaping hole that now exists in the window in Dean's office. Openingmy laptop, I typerare forms of cancerinto the search bar and begin my research into the disease that stole my husband from me. I don’t know that I will ever share details—after all, it isn’t really anyone’s business, but I want to have something at the ready just in case.
The first cancer listed in the search results is leukemia, but the more I read, the more it seems to be a slow-growing disease and not the right choice for my situation. I’ve also never known anyone who’s had leukemia, so after a few minutes, I realize it might be easier if I choose something I at least have some experience with. I frown, reaching for the bottle of white wine I’ve already opened even though it’s hardly noon and pour myself half a glass. I sip it slowly and let my mind wander through all the diseases that’ve afflicted my family.
While I hadn’t known my grandma because she’d died before I was born, I vaguely remember my mom talking about her own mother’s swift and surprising passing from an aggressive and novel form of throat cancer. She smoked like a chimney and was miserable to boot, if I was to take my mother’s word for it, but regardless, my mother was rocked by the early loss of her own mom. I typerare and aggressive forms of throat cancerinto the search bar and began reading. Dean had a love for good whisky and enjoyed the occasional cigar. Maybe I could weave that into the narrative of his passing, and it would work as a sort of cautionary tale. The more I consider this possibility, the more it seems to fit. Throat cancers are hard to diagnose early enough to treat effectively. By the time most people begin to experience symptoms, it’s often grown to an unmanageable stage. Chemotherapy and radiation may help to slow the growth of tumors, but after initial treatment, the tumors often come back with a vengeance. It’s perfect. Just the kind of affliction I need to corroborate my story.
If it ever comes up, I will explain that my dear, sweet Deanwent from diagnosis to aggressive treatment to dead in under ninety days.
Shutting the laptop and feeling a sense of satisfaction overtake my system, I smile as I think about the caption I will post explaining my husband’s swift illness and passing. I will mention that I tried to keep it under wraps because my brand is focused on positivity and uplifting content, but life isn’t always a parade and I finally decided that honesty and authenticity are more important than putting on a fake smile to get through the day. I can just imagine the outpouring of love and comfort that will come from my being real with my followers, cementing them to me in a genuine and messy way. I could even make a post about the medical expenses sucking up all of our savings and retirement, and maybe that would boost the GoFundMe and Patreon donations.
A quickknock-knock-knockshakes me from my thoughts, and I jump off the couch, spilling white wine in my lap as I do. I cross to the front door, a very sad piece of myself hoping it’s Dean back to beg for my forgiveness, but then I hear Charlie, the corgi from next door, bark, and I know it must be Margaret. The little old lady has lived next door to us since we moved in to this condo, and Charlie, sweet as he is, has kept us up many a night with his barking. I hated that dog at one point, but we made friends pretty quickly when Dean suggested that Charlie only needed to get his energy out.
So, about a year ago, I took matters into my own hands and introduced myself to Margaret, explained I was a dog lover and grew up with a corgi named Gizmo and I missed him every day—the best dog I ever had. I told her Dean was allergic so getting our own dog was out of the question, but that I’d love to walk Charlie whenever she needed, to fill the hole in my heart left by Gizmo. Margaret, I’d learned, walked with a cane and had hergroceries delivered. She took me up on my offer to walk her dog and even offered to pay me, but I told her I wouldn’t accept payment, that spending time with Charlie would be enough.
And so, I’d taken to walking Charlie at least a few times a week—whenever his barking got so loud it made me want to pull my hair out. The truth? There was no Gizmo, and I’d never owned a corgi and never would. Their high energy and constant need for attention drove me to the brink of insanity. Margaret was always so grateful when I brought him home and gushed what a good boy he’d been, and she always reported that I was a dog whisperer because he was always calm for a few days after our walks.
Another truth? I’d taken to drugging the poor mutt into submission. Walking him was a chore because he’d never been formally leash-trained. And so, Charlie and I walked the beach, and on the way home, I usually made a point to stop at the pet store and buy him some soft treats, his favorites. When we got back home, I pulled apart a few capsules of Benadryl and mixed them up with the treats and then let him eat to his heart’s content. Charlie was always dragging when I brought him home to Margaret, too tired to move a muscle, much less bark. I was good for Charlie—if it weren’t for me, he’d never get a walk—and I was practically the martyr of our small condo community because his barking ceased for at least a few days after we had our outings.
Charlie barked again, and I had half a mind to hide out but then figured a little walk would be good for both of us. Especially if I wanted some peace over the next few days.
I swung the door wide and plastered on a fake smile. “Margaret, it’s good to see you.”
“Hello, honey. I hate to ask, but a friend is picking me up for my physical therapy appointment in a little while, and I justknow if I leave Charlie at home, he’ll bark until he’s hoarse and drive everyone crazy. Would you be willing to watch him for an hour or two?”
“I would love to!”
Chapter Six
“Charlie!” A shriek bleats past my lips as the dog practically yanks my shoulder out of its socket. I yank right back, anger sizzling through my veins as I imagine dropping him off at the animal shelter and being done with this menace once and for all.
