The hospital room was quiet.

Jasmine sat upright on the bed, composed, as a team of doctors and nurses surrounded her, conducting their post-coma examinations.

She was the one who had pressed the call button to alert the nurses’ station. She had decided to wake up—finally.

Five years as a vegetative ghost? Enough was enough.

Now that she, Jasmine, had opened her eyes, there was no going back.

The marriage had to end.

Her youth may have been squandered, but her rightful property, her career—and most importantly, her two children—were not going to fall into anyone else’s hands. She intended to reclaim it all, piece by piece. Stanley would walk away empty-handed.

Her ultimate goal? Strip Stanley of custody and leave him without a cent. The plan was clear, but she needed time to set the stage. Five years of nothingness wasn’t something one recovered from overnight.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of his silhouette—his suit jacket edging past the doorway. It was time to begin.

“Dr. Turner,” Jasmine’s voice quivered, feigning distress as she reached out blindly. “What’s wrong with my eyes? Why can’t I see anything since waking up?”

Stanley entered just in time to hear her panicked question. He strode inside, his brow tightening in concern as he approached the bed.

“Jas,” he murmured her name softly.

The sound of his voice churned her stomach.

“Stanley, you’re finally here,” she whispered, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, her vacant eyes gazing ahead like the sightless. She reached toward him hesitantly, then let herself collapse into his arms as if out of desperation.

His cologne, along with the faint trace of another woman’s perfume, hung in the air around him.

“Stanley, I’m so scared,” she murmured against his chest, her voice small but trembling. “I can’t see you.”

He held her tightly, soothing her with a calm urgency. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’ll spend whatever it takes to fix this—anything for you.”

Dr. Turner interjected politely, “Mr. Hughes, you don’t need to worry too much. Mrs. Hughes’s condition is likely temporary. Her optic nerves just need time to recover after such prolonged inactivity…”

“How long?” Stanley cut in, his tone sharp with impatience. “How long will it take for her to fully recover?”

The doctor hesitated, clearly apprehensive. “That depends entirely on her condition—maybe two or three months, but with these cases, it’s hard to say.”

Jasmine let herself grow small in Stanley’s embrace, wilting like a flower in a storm. But hidden behind her pretense of helplessness, her eyes glittered coldly with calculation.

She felt the subtle shifting of his muscles, the tension draining from his frame.

A blind woman—that was the perfect guise to make Stanley let his guard down.

Seizing the moment, she spoke in a delicate, wavering voice. “Stanley, I don’t want to stay in the hospital any longer. It’s too frightening here. I want to go home. And when my vision returns, the first thing I want to see is you—and our children.”

Dr. Turner chimed in, his clinical voice measured. “It’s not a bad idea, Mr. Hughes. A familiar, comfortable environment could indeed aid Mrs. Hughes’s recovery.”

Stanley mulled it over for a tense few seconds before finally nodding. “All right. I’ll take you home today.”

Her legs were still weak—walking was out of the question. Stanley had a wheelchair brought down for her and pushed her to the elevator. She rested quietly, her face calm and pale, though inside she was replaying the scene she’d witnessed earlier: Stanley cradling Zoey in his arms, a smile on his lips.

The absurdity of it all stung as much as it amused her. He could hold another woman so tenderly, yet not her.

In the elevator, a full-length mirror reflected the two of them. Jasmine, hidden behind sunglasses, studied Stanley’s face as he stood behind her.

Five years had passed.

He was still strikingly handsome. But now there was a deeper air of authority to him, the polish of maturity. And her? Reduced to a shadow, wasted away until there was almost nothing left.

He had drained everything radiant from her, siphoning it into himself, like the self-serving parasite he was.

They reached the ground floor, where she let her gaze sweep the lobby unnoticed. Zoey and the children were already gone—no doubt ushered away to avoid precisely this scenario.

Stanley brought her to the car’s passenger side and opened the door for her. The moment she turned toward the seat, her eyes caught an unmistakable glint: a Chanel lipstick, abandoned against the leather.

He froze for a fraction of a second before snatching it up. Without a word, he slipped it into his pocket and then gently lifted Jasmine into the seat as if nothing had happened.

The engine purred to life, and for a few minutes, silence cloaked them, until Jasmine’s voice broke through.

“Stanley?” she asked softly.

“Yes?”

“In the five years I was… gone,” she began, choosing her words slowly, “did any other woman ride in this car’s passenger seat?”

He didn’t miss a beat in his denial. “Of course not.”

After a pause, he added with a touch of humor, “Who in all of Northia would dare? Everyone knows how fierce Mrs. Hughes is—a woman who charged into a kidnapper’s den with a gun in one hand and a suitcase full of cash in the other.”

Fierce.

The word had an old, bitter tang to it.

That day was stamped into memory, clear as daylight. Newly married, Jasmine had learned that Stanley was missing—kidnapped. The police were chasing dead ends while she spiraled toward madness, hunting for his whereabouts with every ounce of power and influence she could muster.

When she finally found him, she faced the kidnappers herself. A suitcase of ransom money, a pistol in hand, and no care whether she lived or died.

He’d sworn then; he’d sworn deeply and passionately that he would never betray her. Never forget.

At a red light, the car slowed to a halt. Stanley turned slightly, his dark eyes locking onto her as she sat still in the passenger seat.

“Jas,” he said quietly, “those five years—what did they feel like to you?”

Hidden behind her sunglasses, she looked at him blankly as his hand reached out to cover hers.

“Like a dream,” she answered, her voice hollow. “A long, endless dream. No light, no sound, just blackness everywhere. It was terrifying.”

The tension in his shoulders eased at her words. Everything he wanted to hear. He smiled faintly and patted the back of her hand.

“It’s over now, Jas. We’re going home.”

She forced a smile, her lips curling bitterly. “Yes, it’s over.”

But he didn’t understand. For them, it was over.

This was only the prelude to their reckoning.

The light turned green, and the car surged forward. A sleek black Maybach sped past from the opposite direction, the polished glass reflecting her silhouette for just an instant.

Inside the Maybach, a sharp, chiseled face lingered in shadow: cold, unreadable, locked in impenetrable silence. Dylan Parker.

The moment her reflection flickered across the tinted windows, his pupils constricted sharply.

He rolled down the window, his gaze chasing the fleeting image beyond.

“Mr. Parker? What is it?” Harrison Hill, seated up front, turned in surprise. Never before had he seen his boss so rattled.

“Nothing.”

The Bentley disappeared into the distance, shrinking into oblivion.

Dylan Parker reclined slightly, his sight falling on the illuminated Skyscape Group tower ahead. Its imposing logo pierced the ink-black skyline.

He narrowed his eyes, something dark and unfathomable stirring within as a humorless smirk touched his lips.

“Jasmine,” he murmured her name, drawing it out like a phantom’s caress, his voice low and cool, edged with both longing and mockery. “Was it worth it?”