Lost marriage, but not lost love
After five years trapped in a coma, Jasmine woke up.
The first sound she heard was the deep, honeyed voice of her husband, Stanley Hughes.
He was stroking her face, his tone low and soft. “Jas, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve outlived your usefulness. Just stay asleep, forever.”
Bastard.
Jasmine clenched her fists so tightly, nails bit into her palms, the pain grounding her, keeping the nausea at bay.
She’d met Stanley when she was twelve, married him at twenty. Two years later, she bore him twins only to suffer a medical accident that left her a shell of herself—a body suspended in limbo, alive but unresponsive.
The doctors had been matter-of-fact. Her vital signs remained intact, but she lacked higher cognitive function. Essentially, she was a breathing doll.
But the truth was different. Jasmine had heard everything. Felt everything. She’d been awake inside her silent prison, powerless to scream, to fight, to refute.
And it had bought her this dreadful clarity—given her the chance to finally see Stanley for what he truly was.
A knock sounded at the door as a nurse peeked in. “Mr. Hughes, visiting hours are up for today.”
Stanley, as polished as ever, offered her a warm, courteous smile. “Of course. Thank you.”
Before leaving, he bent down, his lips brushing Jasmine’s forehead with the practiced ease of a man who knew how to mimic devotion. His words dripped sweetness, a lover’s promise.
“Jas, wake up soon… I’ll always be here, waiting. I’ll always love you.”
Jasmine’s stomach churned with revulsion. That performance—why waste such stellar acting on a comatose audience?
But not entirely without spectators. Outside the room, two nurses whispered wistfully, their eyes glued to Stanley’s retreating back.
“One in a million, isn’t he?” Nurse A sighed. “Visiting her every week for five years. Such a perfect husband.”
“Not just good-looking—his fortune’s in the billions, too,” Nurse B added, her tone tinged with envy. “Any woman would kill to throw herself at Stanley Hughes, but in all this time, not a single scandal. Can you believe it? That Jasmine must’ve saved a whole village in her last life to land a guy like him.”
A perfect husband?
Jasmine’s laugh was silent, bitter.
A man who had used her brilliance and labor to cement his career before draining her of every ounce of maternal value—then discarded her like trash when she was no longer useful? Yes, what a prince.
A surge of determination propelled her. Jasmine yanked back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. But her body, dormant for so long, betrayed her. The moment her feet touched the ground, she crumpled, pain lancing through her weak muscles.
She swallowed her cries and crawled toward the window. Inch by agonizing inch.
Outside, a sleek black Bentley idled in the driveway. Its license plate—her birthday—stared back at her. An anniversary gift from Stanley, given in what now felt like another lifetime.
She’d been so happy that day, wrapping her arms around his neck, her voice trembling with tears. “Stanley, you really love me, don’t you?”
His lips had brushed hers in reply. “Silly girl. You’re my wife. If I don’t love you, who will?”
She had believed him. Every word.
He’d said, “Jas, this is only the beginning. One year, ten years, fifty years—we’ll spend them all together.”
Lies wrapped in the gilded ribbons of love.
From her perch, Jasmine watched Zoey Lawson, Stanley’s secretary, step out of the car. On the arm of another man, she might’ve been mistaken for someone’s assistant. But here, stepping purposefully from what used to be Jasmine’s car, she carried herself with the poise of a lady of the house.
Jasmine froze as Stanley appeared on the front steps. She saw Zoey stumble, her heel catching on something invisible. Instinctively, Stanley surged forward to catch her, concern written plainly across his face.
When had Stanley ever looked at her that way? Jasmine hadn’t known he possessed the capacity for such tenderness.
In his eyes, she had always been unbreakable—a utility, stripped of care, stripped of humanity—an eager dog who would come running whenever he crooked his finger.
Like the time she’d abandoned her dream of joining a world-renowned medical research institute because he’d whispered, “Jas, stay. I need you.”
She had stayed. Forfeited her future to become Mrs. Hughes.
She’d poured everything into his trajectory—worked herself to exhaustion until her stomach bled, pioneering the medical advances that ensured his rise within Skyscape Group. He’d become the youngest board member in its history on the back of her sacrifices.
And she believed him when he’d said he’d spend a lifetime repaying her.
Memory was a blade, carving pain with every passing frame. Jasmine trembled, her body wracked by the strength of it. Her throat tightened, tears biting at the corners of her eyes before slipping into her mouth. Bitter. So bitter.
Below, Zoey leaned forward, planting a flirtatious kiss on Stanley’s cheek. He didn’t push her away. Instead, he smiled indulgently, as though this—she—were his future, their future.
Jasmine’s stomach turned.
And then the rear door of the Bentley opened, and her heartbreak was completed.
Helena Hill and Christian Hughes tumbled out, her twins—her babies—perfect little mirrors of the love with which she’d once welcomed them into the world.
“Chris! Helen!” Jasmine gasped, her voice breaking in the prison of her throat. She stretched helpless hands toward the window, aching to touch their soft cheeks, to pull them close.
But the twins raced not to her, but to Zoey, their arms flung around the woman’s waist, showering her with sticky kisses.
“It can’t be,” Jasmine whispered through the knot in her chest. “No…”
Stanley watched the scene unfold with gentle amusement, a father content, while Zoey played the part of mother to perfection. They looked like a family—a happy, unbroken family.
Jasmine’s nails dug into the glass, her breath fogging the pane. Stanley might be beyond redemption, disposable like the trash he was, but those children—they were her flesh and blood. She would reclaim them if it killed her.
Helen turned then, her instinct sharp, drawn like a tether to the window above. Their eyes locked—mother and daughter across an unfathomable distance.
Jasmine smoothed her hair and did her best to smile, hesitant, hopeful.
Helen recoiled. Her tiny arms clutched Zoey in fright as she stammered, “Daddy, Mother Zoey, there’s someone up there!”
Stanley glanced at the window she’d pointed to. His expression shifted, momentarily unsure, but the glass was empty—Jasmine had vanished from sight.
“Helen, are you sure?” He crouched to meet his daughter’s gaze.
“I’m sure,” Helen insisted, her voice clear and unwavering. “There was someone. A lady with long hair!”
Stanley’s phone buzzed before he could press her further. Glancing at the screen, his jaw clenched. It was Jasmine’s physician.
He answered briskly. “Dr. Turner.”
“Mr. Hughes!” The doctor’s voice was laced with uncontained excitement. “Incredible news—Mrs. Hughes has woken up!”
