I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh and looked at her.
“Sister-in-law, I don’t mind. The pendant’s broken, and so be it.”
After saying that, I didn’t glance at any of them again.
I turned and went back into the kitchen. But not long after, Sabrina followed me in.
“Julienne, your husband and son treat you like this, and you still won’t divorce him?”
“Jameson never loved you!”
She walked up to me, her eyes filled with undisguised triumph.
She looked me up and down, and seeing my dirty, grease-stained apron, she sneered in mock pity.
“Look at yourself in the mirror—you’re nothing but a washed-up old woman.”
"Jameson is a professor at Vanderbilt University. How could he possibly take someone like you out in public? Every time there’s an important event, it’s me he takes, not you.”
With no one else around, Sabrina dropped all pretenses. Her arrogance surged. The mask of politeness was gone, and her naked malice showed through.
Just as I was about to ask why she hated me so much, she suddenly let out a cry and collapsed to the floor.
“Ow—Julienne, I didn’t mean to break your pendant. I really came to the kitchen to help and apologize!”
“Why did you push me?”
Jameson rushed in from outside. When he saw Sabrina lying on the floor, his face twisted in fury.
Without a word, he slapped me hard.
The force sent me crashing to the ground, blood trickling from the corner of my mouth.
“You vicious woman!”
Stunned, my ears ringing, I didn’t even have time to react.
Before he could strike again, Sabrina suddenly gasped, “Ah! My hand... it’s bleeding!”
The moment Jameson heard that, he forgot all about his anger—or my injuries. He scooped her up in his arms like she was made of porcelain and yelled for our son to drive them to the hospital.
And I?
I was left lying on the cold floor—my knees scraped raw, and my arm had slammed hard into the wall during the fall.
It was dislocated.
The pain turned my face deathly pale.
But outside, everything was silent again.
No one asked what had happened to me in the kitchen.
No one cared, so I had to call the ambulance myself.
At the hospital, they reset my dislocated shoulder and bandaged me up.
Just as I was about to go home, my phone rang.
It was my son, Jonathan.
“Mom, where are you? Why aren’t you at home?”
For a moment, I thought he’d found the blood I left behind in the kitchen. That maybe, finally, he was worried about me.
My heart softened, and I smiled faintly. “I'm fine. I’m at the hospital, but I’ll head home soon.”
“Which hospital?”
Before I could answer, I saw Jonathan sprinting toward me down the hallway.
His face was full of anxiety.
He rushed up and grabbed my arm—the one that had just been dislocated.
A sharp pain exploded through me. My face turned pale, and I couldn’t help but cry out.
But he didn’t seem to hear it. Or didn’t care.
He dragged me toward the elevator.
“Mom, hurry! Mom Sabby’s anemia is serious. She needs a blood transfusion—and only your blood type matches!”
I tried to stop him, to tell him I’d just dislocated that arm.
But the pain stole my voice. I had no strength left to resist.
All I could feel was my arm tearing apart again.
When we reached the fifth floor, Sabrina was already lying unconscious on the hospital bed, surrounded by people murmuring anxiously.
The moment Jameson saw me, he called the doctor in.
“Draw her blood,” he ordered.
I struggled with everything I had, shouting, “No! I don’t want to—I won’t give blood!”
But Jameson simply tried to soothe me with a tone full of false concern. “Julienne, Sabrina really needs it. Just endure it—it’s only a few needles.”
“Once it’s done, I’ll buy you some supplements to help you recover.”
He and our son pinned me down, ignoring my protests.
Jameson even told the doctor, “I’m her husband—I’ll sign the consent form. The woman on that bed is my sister-in-law, and this is a matter of life and death. What’s a little blood?”
I couldn’t fight back.
Held down tight, I had no choice.
They drew three full vials of blood from me.
And then, everything went black.
