CHAPTER 1

Madison

Have you ever loved someone so much you could kill him?My signature was a heartbeat away from doing that. I'd signedthe authorization to take my husband off life support. He was a goodman. But there were times when being a good person wasn't enough.Some would say he did all the right things in our relationship, but hedid them for the wrong woman. I'd disagree. Unlike most women, Iknew my self-worth. The brilliant diamond wedding ring on my fingerwas there because I'd earned it.

"Mrs. DuBois," the doctor softly said. "I still have the paper in myhand. It's not too late to have a change of heart." He stood in front ofme as though my time was up.

In a small private space, there was a desk, two chairs, a computer,the doctor, and me. The door with a large square windowpane wasclosed.

The room suddenly got colder as though someone had locked mein a morgue, alone, with the Grim Reaper. The chill penetrated me sodeep I froze from the inside out. Reminded me of a trip I'd taken toNew York City to celebrate New Year's Eve. I was in the midst of tensof thousands of people bundled in coats. Their faces were wrappedwith scarves. My feet were stuffed in fur-lined boots. My hands wereinside cashmere-coated gloves and I was in Times Square, freezing.

Tapered to my body, the sleeveless black dress I'd chosen to put onthis morning was midthigh. The back of my legs stuck to the hardplastic chair. I hugged myself, then slid my hands up and down thechill bumps covering my arms. I wiggled my fingers; they were stiff. Ipressed them together; then I rubbed them back and forth. I wantedto cry for my husband, for myself, but this was not the time to breakdown. There were too many what-ifs in my mind competing for attention;it felt like my head was going to explode. My unchanging heartwas heavy and numb. I'd heard the doctor, but I didn't respond.

I sat staring at the beige tile beneath my four-inch black platformstilettos. What if my husband died before I made it to the hospital'sexit? What if all of his football fans blamed me for his death? What ifI hadn't had sex with that idiot, Granville? What if the baby growinginside me was the result of my infidelity? What if the tape Granvillestole from my house of us having sex ended up online for millions tosee? What if I continued to delay having surgery for my breast cancer?What if something went wrong with my operation and I ended up onlife support? Would I want someone to take me off?

Gazing into the doctor's eyes, I told him, "My decision is final."

He remained quiet for several minutes, then said, "Okay. I'm prettysure you don't want to be in the room when he's disconnected fromthe machine, but I have to—"

"Ask?" I paused, then continued, "No, you don't."

Already dressed for the possibility of becoming a grieving widow, Istood, with one foot in front of him, and opened my mouth. I wantedto ask how long did he think it would be before I received the call sayingmy husband was dead.

Don't do that, Madison. The doctor will think you're insensitive.

The truth was, I did care for Roosevelt. Hopefully, his transitionwould happen within twenty-four hours. Just in case he lingered morethan a day, I'd already approved comfort care for him. The staff couldinsert an IV and administer morphine as often as needed to eliminatethe pain I had caused.

In the end I'd done what was best for my husband. Now it was timeto start focusing on my health. My father had made arrangements formy mother and me to leave the country. At his request I'd given mydad full power of attorney to handle my business. Papa didn't wantme being constantly threatened by strangers, and Mama didn't wantme to be in a foreign place all by myself.

How hundreds of thousands of my husband's fans could hate me,when they didn't know me, meant Papa had done the right thing. Iwished people would tend to their own situations and leave me thehell alone.

Mama and I would stay gone for almost a year, until I had my babyand recovered from surgery. Southerners were accustomed to sendingpregnant teens away, letting them give birth, putting the baby upfor adoption, then allowing them to return home as if nothing hadhappened.

My circumstances were different. I was a grown woman. Regardlesswho the father was, I was bringing my child back to America. By thetime we returned, Papa believed things would've calmed down andsomeone else would be media worthy of inexplicable hatred.

A woman's love for a dying man could make him want to live. Outof respect I should have wanted to say my last good-byes but I didn'twant to encourage Roosevelt to live longer. Tears burned my eyes.

Was my husband scared? Was he tired of holding on and ready to letgo? Without me by his side, my husband would soon exhale for thelast time.

"Mrs. DuBois. Roosevelt is an icon in our community. Look, he'sthe youngest GM in football. He's on the league's ethics committee.He's brought our team back. He could possibly take us to the championship.More than just you love him. Are you absolutely sure youwant to do this?" the doctor asked. His eyes watered with sadness. "It'snot too late to rip this up," he said, waving the paper in my direction.

The doctor probably sensed I was torn, but it was my decision tomake my life—make that our lives—easier. My husband wasn't strongenough to survive on his own, and I didn't want to spend our futuretaking care of him. I mean, what if I had to push him around in awheelchair? Or hire someone to bathe and feed him? I was a beautiful,vibrant, sexy, thirty-five-years-young woman ready to share thespotlight of being an executive vice president/general manager'swife. I didn't sign a license to be his caretaker.

Oh, well. I'm convinced. A blissful marriage is never going to happen. Atleast not with Roosevelt "Chicago" DuBois. His professional administrativefootball career is over.

Letting Roosevelt go was easier than telling my husband the three-month-oldbaby inside me might not be his. There was a chance Icould give birth to a child who would remind me every day that I'dcheated. Why? Because of the bet I'd made with my girlfriend.

Four weeks ago on my wedding day, I was the envy of all women—singleand married—in Houston, including my so-called best friend,Loretta. Should've left her ass alone years ago. She was a real jealousbitch. If she wasn't trying so hard to impress my husband, she mighthave one of her own.

Sadly I said, "Please leave."

Soon as the doctor left the room, I cried out loud, "Dear God,what's the lesson here? I know I'm not perfect, but what did I do todeserve—" I stopped. I threw my hands up, then added, "Don't answerthat." I touched my stomach. My only prayer was "Let Rooseveltbe the father."

That way, I'd still have a piece of him to love. Our child needed afather, but not one who might be brain damaged. Roosevelt wasn'tthe first man who proposed to me. He was the ninth. But he was thefirst one who loved me enough for me to marry him. When he died, Iwould become a lonely woman, but not for long. I'd scatter his ashesover the Gulf of Mexico, then celebrate the great memories we shared.We didn't have a prenuptial, so legally I'd inherit his millions. Eventuallyanother man would fall in love with me and help me raise mychild.

Many would call me a bitch. Roosevelt's mother, Helen DuBois,would be first in line. His only brother, Chaz, would stand beside...