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.
