My Husband Sent Two Million a Month, but I Starved

I was Victor Costa's sickly wife. He was the CEO of the Costa Group and had married me despite his family's objections. On the opening day of the Costa Foundation's centennial charity week, I passed out from low blood sugar on the livestream. My husband, Victor, was in Europe for meetings, and his sister, Isabella Costa, was sure I was faking again. But after Dr. Rossi examined me, he frowned and asked her, "She's been malnourished for a long time, and her prescription hasn't been refilled in at least three months. Doesn't anyone feed her?" The livestream comments exploded with laughter. [Mrs. Costa, malnourished? I'd sooner believe the Costa Group had gone bankrupt.] Everyone knew Victor set aside two million dollars a month for my care and had hired a private doctor and nutritionist just for me. Isabella thought I was overdoing it, too. That is, until she searched my bag and found half a pack of glucose tablets I'd been rationing, a prepaid card with only seven dollars left, and three declined-payment slips from the pharmacy. I said quietly, "Victor told me I only get $200 a month to live on. "My medicine is too expensive. If I stop taking it for a while, I won't die right away." Isabella called her brother on the spot. "You only give your wife $200 a month?" Victor's voice turned cold. "What do you mean, $200? "I sign off on two million dollars for her every month, and I've never pulled her medical team!" 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!" 2 Victor had barely finished speaking when someone in the conference room urged him to sign an agreement transferring port operating rights. He spared me a quick glance. "Elena, what are you making a fuss about now?" I shrank back without thinking. "I'm not making a fuss." "Isabella says you only have seven dollars left on your card. If you don't want to take part in charity week, just go home. There's no need to joke about something like this." I was about to explain when an argument broke out on his end. Victor said only, "I'll handle it when I get back," and ended the call. Isabella's expression turned cold again. She clearly trusted her brother more than me. I made excuses for Victor too. He handled hundreds of millions every day. Maybe he'd really mixed up $200 and two million dollars. Once I'd had some glucose, Dr. Rossi cleared me for light activity only. The crew gave each pair of guests $50 to cover a whole day's meals in the neighborhood. Isabella pointed at a restaurant. "Let's go there." I checked the menu and quickly grabbed her arm. "The cheapest pasta is $65." "So?" "We can't even afford one plate." I took her to a food truck and bought two of the cheapest hard rolls and a small jar of discounted pickles. The rest of the money had to last until dinner. Isabella stared at the rolls, at a loss for words. "Is this what you eat at home too?" I shook my head. She had just begun to relax when I added, "I didn't even buy pickles before. I washed the bread down with cold water. It was cheaper." Her face froze. Just then, a woman in a baseball cap leaned over and whispered, "Could I have a pickle slice?" It was Chloe, the fiancée of the heir to Russia's Ivanov conglomerate. According to gossip magazines, one of her necklaces cost as much as an ordinary person earned in ten years. But all she had in her hand was half a slice of cold pizza from the sample table. "You didn't eat lunch?" I asked. Chloe sighed. "Broke." I stared. "You're broke too?" She glanced at the camera and lowered her voice. "I only get $300 a month, and I have to pay my own phone bill." I was impressed. "You get $300? You're richer than me." She looked at me with sympathy. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then grabbed each other's hands. "So you live on a rock-bottom budget too." "From today on, we're the Budget Alliance." Isabella and Olga Ivanova, Chloe's future mother-in-law, stood beside us, both looking appalled. The comments, on the other hand, were dying of laughter. [Did these two rich families go bankrupt? Their allowances are worse than welfare.] [Other people come to charity week to network. These two came to start a Budget Alliance.] Chloe suggested we pool our food. She brought out two hard-boiled eggs she'd taken from the hotel, and I contributed the rolls and pickles. I put an egg on Isabella's paper plate first. "You eat it." "You're not eating?" "The bread's enough for me." Isabella frowned. "Acting again?" "No. Victor will get mad if you go hungry." Isabella went quiet for a moment. Then she cut the egg in half and put the piece with most of the yolk on my plate. "I don't eat yolks. Too much cholesterol." I watched her swallow the rest of the yolk and didn't call her on it. 3 That afternoon, our task was to help a bankrupt farmer sell off his surplus apples. All the money we raised at the stand and through the livestream would go to charity. Our totals would determine the rankings, and the higher we ranked, the bigger our dinner budget. First place would get $500. Chloe pulled me behind the church to strategize. "If we sell them the usual way, we can't beat those movie stars." "So what do we do?" "We use what we're most famous for right now." Ten minutes later, Chloe picked up the microphone at the stand. "Buy a bag of apples and you get a photo with Mrs. Costa." I froze for a second. "What about you?" "Buy a whole box, and you get a photo with me too. A billionaire's fiancée, no extra charge today." One tourist laughed and asked, "What if I buy two boxes?" Chloe didn't miss a beat. "We'll tell you which billionaire is stingier." I corrected her at once. "Victor isn't cheap. He still gives me $200 a month." The square went quiet for a second. Olga pressed a hand to her forehead, and Isabella looked angrier by the moment. She said through gritted teeth, "Elena, you may have no shame, but Victor still has a reputation to protect." I immediately reached for the microphone in Chloe's hand. "Then I'll stop selling. I can skip dinner." Chloe held my hand down hard. "No way. I'm having a hot meal tonight." She turned back to the crowd and held up another apple. "These apples are really fresh, so please support your local farm! You can buy them here or order them online!" The livestream audience cracked up, and orders poured in. In less than half an hour, every apple the orchard had brought that day had sold. Rachel announced that we'd tied for first place, and each pair got $500 for dinner. Chloe and I threw our arms around each other, nearly in tears. "$500!" "We can have barbecue tonight!" Isabella looked at me. "You're this happy over $500?" I nodded hard. If I was careful, that money could last me a long time. The farmer brought over a bag of apples bruised in transit. A crew member picked up a smashed one to throw away. I rushed over without thinking and grabbed it. "Don't throw it away. It's just a little bruised. It's still good." "Put it down," Isabella said. I clutched the apple and stayed where I was. "I used to salvage ones like this in the kitchen all the time..." She snatched the rotten apple from me, threw it in the trash, then picked the biggest, reddest one from the basket and shoved it into my hand. "Eat this one." "But this one looks perfect. We could sell it." "Why is getting you to eat an apple harder than getting you to take your medicine? Eat!" I flinched and took a big bite. Isabella stared at my puffed-out cheeks and didn't say anything for a long time. The mood in the comments shifted too. [Grabbing the rotten apple was pure reflex. She doesn't look like she's acting.] [When she ran over to grab that apple, Isabella didn't even have time to react.] [She really seems used to being hungry. She gets a good one, and her first thought is that she could sell it.] That night, Chloe and I combined our dinner budgets and ordered a whole roast chicken. When the chicken arrived, we both swallowed hard, but neither of us reached for a knife or fork. "You first," Chloe said. "You first." "I have to fit into a gown soon. I'm watching my weight." "My doctor says I can't eat anything too greasy." Olga gave a cold laugh, cut off a drumstick, and put it on Chloe's plate. Isabella pushed the other drumstick onto my plate. "Eat." I asked cautiously, "Is this really for me?" "Who else would it be for, the table?" Only then did I lower my head and take a bite. Rachel came over and said the clip of us selling apples that afternoon had gone viral. People online had even given us a group name. Chloe and I both looked up. Rachel was trying not to laugh. "The High-Society Stray Cats." Chloe laughed so hard she almost choked. Isabella heard the name and, for once, didn't argue. 4 The next day, the crew had each pair switch roles. It was my turn to plan Isabella's meals, clothes, lodging, and transportation for the day. The other guests went to rooftop restaurants and private spas. I took Isabella to the supermarket nearby. She stood off to the side and watched me pick out a bag of potatoes at the store's members-only price and grab a 30-cent coupon. At the sample table, I finished a small piece of cheese and asked the employee, "Could I have another?" "One per person." I looked at Isabella. "Do you want one?" "No." I turned right back around. "Then could I have hers?" The staff member paused, then handed me another piece. I quickly thanked her. Isabella looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. "You really had to take that too?" "If you're not eating it, I might as well have it." "We have top-quality ingredients delivered to the house every day." "They did when we first got married. Then the deliveries stopped. They said Victor thought I was spending too much." Her eyes darkened. "Victor said that himself?" I thought for a moment and shook my head. "No. I never heard him say it." She was about to ask more when Chloe suddenly ran over, clutching her stomach. Chloe hadn't eaten that morning, and her empty stomach had made her ulcer flare up. Olga wanted to take her to the hospital, but Chloe wrapped her arms around the shopping cart and wouldn't go. "Not yet. I'll be fine once I eat. One trip to the ER would use up my whole month's allowance." I gave her half of the sandwich I'd just bought. She cried as she ate. "When I'm rich, we're going to the most expensive seafood buffet there is." "Okay. We'll go together." "And when we do, we'll check the menu first. No filling up on bread and salad." "Okay." The livestream chat was in stitches. Back at the charity week's main venue, a few community clinics working with the foundation offered free consultations. Olga took Chloe to have her blood pressure checked. As I waited nearby, I noticed a stack of prescription assistance flyers on the table. I picked one up. "Can heart patients apply for this program too?" The staff member nodded. "If you qualify, you can apply for help with part of the cost." I asked again, "What about someone like me? If I couldn't afford my medicine one day, could I apply?" Isabella whipped her head around. "Elena, why are you asking about that?" I folded the flyer and put it in my bag. "Just to have it." "Have it for what?" I looked at her. "If Victor ever tells me to move out, at least I won't die out there because I can't afford my medicine." Her expression changed in an instant. "Who said he's kicking you out?" "No one. But he hasn't been home in three months, my allowance keeps shrinking, and my medicine has been cut off. I have to plan ahead." The whole place went quiet. For the first time, no one in the comments laughed. [She's already looking into help with her meds?] [So she's actually planning how to survive after she gets kicked out?] [Doesn't Victor give her two million dollars a month? Why does she need help paying for medicine?] Isabella stared at the corner of the flyer poking out of my bag and said nothing for a long while. Just then, a few black cars pulled up outside the square. A car door opened, and Victor strode toward me in a dark suit. His tie was loose, and he looked exhausted from the trip. He stopped in front of me. His eyes passed over my pale face and landed on the flyer sticking out of my bag. His frown deepened. "Elena." He grabbed my wrist and spoke in a low voice. "I send you two million dollars every month, right on time. Why are you telling the whole internet I only give you $200?" Seconds later, his assistant texted him, "Mr. Costa, last month's two million dollars is already gone. I really couldn't stop her. Mrs. Costa says if she doesn't get that ten-million-dollar pink diamond necklace from Sotheby's today, she'll burn the villa down!"