"Tony, honey! My head... it feels like it's splitting open! Save me!"
Jasmine's eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the floor.
Anthony didn't hesitate. He scooped her up and bellowed for a doctor.
I lunged forward, grabbing for his arm. "Anthony, wait—"
He kicked me back. Hard.
"Get lost!" His face twisted with fury. "Look what you did to Jasmine! And you still want money? In your dreams!"
He bullied the staff into prioritizing her—unconscious, nothing more—and they rushed her into the ER, slamming the doors in my face.
Shut out. Abandoned.
I sprinted to the ICU and dropped to my knees before the attending physician.
"Please." My forehead hit the cold floor. "Save her first. I'll get the money."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Sanchez." His voice was pained but firm. "ECMO requires prepayment. I can't override the system. Find the funds. Now."
I borrowed a nurse's phone. My hands shook so badly I could barely dial.
"Mom, Dad, please..."
They didn't ask questions. The transfer came instantly.
But the moment the notification pinged, the red light above the ICU went dark.
The doctor stepped out, peeling off his mask. He couldn't meet my eyes.
"I'm sorry. Your mother-in-law didn't make it."
My mind blanked. A hollow ringing filled my ears as the doors swung open and a gurney rolled out. A white sheet covered the body.
"Mom!"
The scream tore from my throat. The exhaustion, the fear, everything I'd been holding back—it erupted at once.
The world tilted. Darkness swarmed my vision.
I collapsed.
When I woke, antiseptic burned my nose. A nurse stood nearby, speaking softly. Zoe's body was in the morgue. Leon had stabilized, but he was too fragile for shocks—we couldn't tell him his wife was dead.
I felt hollowed out. A shell.
"Can I use your phone again?"
I logged into WeChat. The first thing I saw was a video from Jasmine.
I pressed play.
A luxury hospital suite. Anthony and Jasmine tangled on the bed, locked in a passionate embrace. He kissed her deeply while clothes lay scattered across the floor—oblivious to the tragedy he'd just caused.
Then came her messages.
[Jasmine: Bitch. I pretended to faint and Tony dropped your mother's medical fees like hot garbage.]
[Jasmine: Is the old hag dead yet? She really deserved it. Hahahaha.]
Grief burned away. What replaced it was colder. Sharper.
I opened the photo gallery. The nurse had taken a picture of Zoe moments after she passed—eyes still wide open, staring at nothing, unable to find peace even in death.
I attached that image to Jasmine's video and screenshots.
[Violet: Open your eyes. Your mistress killed your mother.]
Meanwhile, at the restaurant.
Jasmine had demanded discharge, claiming she needed fish head soup to recover. Anthony catered to her every whim, feeding her spoonful by spoonful.
A waiter approached. "Manager Maxwell? This bag was left by the table that... well, the ones who didn't pay yesterday. What should we do with it?"
Jasmine didn't look up. "Keep the bag. Trash everything inside."
Anthony paused. "What bag?"
She smirked and held up the Hermès. "This one. Limited edition. That bitch Violet must've used your money to buy her mother a luxury bag. The old woman really deserved to die."
Anthony snatched it from her hands.
The leather felt sickeningly familiar. His gaze dropped to the zipper pull.
Engraved in the metal: Jasmine.
His blood ran cold.
