That morning, I stood beside the marble kitchen island, organizing my medical paperwork inside a manila folder.

My appointment with the gastroenterologist was at 10:30 at a clinic near downtown Fort Lauderdale, and my specialist had been clear: I should not postpone it.

The first treatment had failed, my condition was getting worse, and he wanted to examine me right away.

A steady ache spread beneath my ribs as I checked the folder yet again. Insurance card. Lab reports. Medication list. Notes tracking my symptoms. Even those small movements drained me; standing upright felt harder than it should.

Footsteps came down the stairs. Gordon appeared first, in a navy polo, neatly pressed khakis, and the expensive loafers I’d given him for his birthday.

Rita followed close behind in an elegant silk blouse, crisp white slacks, gold jewelry, and makeup better suited to a formal evening than a weekday shopping trip.

Neither of them looked ready to accompany someone to a medical appointment. They looked ready to spend my money.

Without so much as glancing at my pale face or the way I leaned against the counter for support, Rita walked to the island and casually shoved my medical folder aside to set down her teacup.

The folder slid across the marble and nearly tumbled to the floor. I caught it just before it fell. She offered no apology.

“You need to postpone your appointment,” she declared, taking another leisurely sip.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There’s an exclusive client sale at the Galleria today. Several designer stores are opening early for invited shoppers. I need you to drive me before the best items disappear.”

The Galleria at Fort Lauderdale was less than an hour away with light traffic. On a weekday morning, with commuters filling Interstate 95 and traffic backed up along the bridges, it could take much longer.