anwhile...
Jasmine stood outside the ward, peeking through the glass window where she could see lissa. Inside, the doctors moved briskly, transferring blood to Lawrence as the monitor’s faint beeping filled the air. lissa sat beside the bed, holding her father’s hand tightly, whispering sothing Jasmine couldn’t hear.
Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, each beat louder than the last. Her fingers trembled around the phone she’d been holding for the past ten minutes. The re thought that Lola—not lissa—could be her daughter made her chest tighten with emotions she couldn’t even begin to na.
Her throat went dry. She wanted to breathe, but even air seed unwilling to stay.
She didn’t even know what she was hoping for anymore.
A part of her wanted to believe Doctor Tyler had lied, that he was just trying to shake her. But another part of her—one that never forgot Loren’s face—rembered that mocking smile before she took her last breath.
That look, that voice.
Those words Loren had whispered before dying now played over and over in Jasmine’s head like a curse she couldn’t escape.
"Mike," she whispered shakily, pressing the phone harder to her ear. "Please... answer."
She began pacing back and forth in the corridor, her heels clicking against the sterile tiles. A few nurses passed her by, throwing cautious glances, but Jasmine didn’t care. She didn’t care if people thought she was heartless for not sitting by Lawrence’s bedside. She needed sothing—anything—to hold onto before she fell apart.
But suddenly, her own thoughts froze her mid-step.
The monotonous ringing in her ear seed distant now. Her mind had drifted far away—to every cruel thing she had ever done to Lola.
Even before Loren died, she had treated the girl terribly. After Loren’s death, that cruelty only worsened. There had never been a mont—not one—when Jasmine had shown Lola kindness.
All she ever wanted was to erase her.
Not because she truly believed Lola was Lawrence’s daughter, but because every ti she looked at the girl, she saw Loren. The sa expression, the sa stubborn eyes. The woman who had made her feel small, humiliated, and unwanted.
Her chest burned with guilt she couldn’t na. Until suddenly, the call connected.
"Jasmine," ca Mike’s voice, cool and casual, with the faint hum of traffic in the background. "It’s done, dear."
Jasmine stopped walking as her stomach dropped. "What did you say?"
"It’s done," Mike repeated, a soft chuckle escaping him. "I’ve dealt with Lola Young."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"What’s with that tone?" he clicked his tongue. "Anyway, Lawrence won’t be getting any blood since that bitch will need it more. You don’t have to worry about him. He’s not going to survive."
He spoke so easily, so casually, as if the words didn’t carry the weight of murder.
Jasmine couldn’t move. Her mind went blank, but her hand trembled violently as she turned her gaze back toward the ward window.
Lawrence lay pale and still, tubes running through his arms as the transfusion continued.
"No..." she breathed.
"What?" Mike’s tone shifted.
"Lawrence is getting a blood transfusion," she murmured, almost in disbelief. "Right now."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Mike’s voice grew sharp. "Did they find another donor? Jasmine, what the fuck are you saying?!"
Her hand tightened around the phone until her knuckles turned white.
"Jasmine! You’re just standing there while they give that fool blood—"
"lissa’s a perfect match," she interrupted, her voice trembling.
Silence.
"What did you say?" Mike asked, his confusion laced with irritation. "Who’s a perfect match with that fool?"
"lissa..." Her voice cracked. Her knees gave out, and she stumbled backward, her back hitting the wall with a soft thud. Her free hand flew to her temple as though she could hold her head together before it split.
"Mike," she whispered, the words shaking. "I think... I think that bitch Loren..."
Her voice trailed off. Her chest constricted so tightly that her next breath ca out as a broken gasp.
Then ca the mories—each cruel act replaying in sharp, rciless flashes.
The nights she sabotaged the little girl’s chances at rest, the tis she forced her to go hungry, the endless chores that left her hands blistered. The way she trained lissa to mock her, to see her as lesser. The day she convinced Lawrence to make Lola undergo sterilization, ensuring the girl would never have a child of her own.
Even when Lola returned to Novera, Jasmine still used her. Blad her. Just last night, she’d scread at her, accusing her of being the reason Lawrence tried to hurt himself.
A tear slipped down her cheek. Her breathing turned ragged. Her vision blurred as guilt slamd into her like a wave.
"Jasmine, what are you talking about?!" Mike’s voice barked through the phone, but it sounded miles away.
Her phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the floor. Jasmine slid down after it, slumping against the wall with wide, lifeless eyes.
Loren’s dying expression flashed before her eyes again. That half-smile, the soft, broken whisper.
A sound escaped Jasmine’s throat.
"That bitch..." she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "That bitch... stole my baby, didn’t she?"
Mike’s voice shouted through the phone, but she no longer cared. Her mind had gone sowhere else, into a cold, spiraling emptiness where every cruel thing she’d done was echoing back at her.
"Mike..." she whispered faintly.
Her fingers, trembling and weak, picked the phone up again. She pressed it to her ear. "Mike."
"Stop talking to yourself, Jasmine! What the hell is going on?!" he roared. "Get it together! We already solved one problem—what now?!"
Her lips quivered. She swallowed hard, fighting the lump in her throat. "Mike... lissa is Lawrence’s match."
"What?"
"Lawrence is already getting blood from her."
"What—how is that possible?!" Mike snapped. "How could lissa be his match?! Neither of us have his blood type! Are you joking, Jasmine? How could that bastard share our daughter’s blood?!"
Jasmine stayed silent, her tears falling soundlessly. After a few long seconds, she whispered,
"I think... lissa isn’t our daughter."
"What?!"
"Mike," she breathed, "I think Loren... stole our child."
"What the fuck are you saying, Jasmine?! Loren’s dead—there’s no way—"
But Mike stopped mid-sentence. Realization hit him, freezing his voice. His eyes widened; his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white.
He pressed the phone harder against his ear. "Was... Lola Young a match?"
Jasmine said nothing, but her silence was enough.
Mike’s jaw locked. A cold sweat broke down his neck. Without another word, he slamd on the gas and veered the car toward the hospital where Lola had been taken.
Jasmine stayed on the floor, the phone slipping from her fingers once more. The hallway felt cold, empty, and endless.
And for the first ti in her life, she realized what true horror felt like—not the fear of losing control, but the fear of having already lost everything.
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