“What are you still doing here?” he asked.

“Your sister is carrying Christopher’s child,” I explained. Although I had already filed for divorce, I wasn’t officially divorced from Christopher yet.

Hearing this, Asher looked visibly crestfallen.

I couldn’t help but say, “I can’t have children. I’ll never be able to have a child again.”

And it was all because of his sister.

I didn’t know why I was explaining this to him. It seemed unnecessary, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.

Asher froze for a moment and suddenly said, "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing again? If anyone should apologize, it's me to you," I said. "I used you like that, and you're not even angry with me?"

"I am angry," Asher replied, "but I understand why you used me."

"Being angry won't change anything." I smiled. "I’m not going to apologize to you. I don’t think I did anything wrong."

Asher didn’t respond.

We sat there outside the operating room, waiting in silence until the surgery was over.

In the end, Jasmine’s baby couldn’t be saved.

For a second, I felt a twinge of regret, but only for a second.

When Jasmine woke up and learned what had happened, she went mad. She lunged at me, grabbing a nearby fruit knife and tried to kill me.

She slashed a deep cut across my right hand—my painting hand.

The sight of the bright red blood flowing from my hand terrified everyone in the room, especially Asher.

He restrained Jasmine, his eyes full of pain as he looked at me.

I said to him, "She’s lost her mind. You can’t let her roam free, or who knows who else she might hurt."

"You have a bright future ahead of you. You can’t let her ruin it. Send her to a psychiatric hospital. It’s what’s best for everyone."