A sleek black Bentley rolled to a stop in front of a villa.

Stanley scooped Jasmine out of the car, setting her gently into a wheelchair. With steady hands, he began to push her forward.

Behind her sunglasses, Jasmine surveyed the villa before her. This was their marital home. It had been five long years since she’d last seen it, and now it felt as if it belonged to another lifetime.

“Jas, we’re home,” Stanley murmured, leaning close to her ear. His warm breath brushed against her skin, his voice soft, comforting. “Do you smell them? The tulips you planted for me—they’ve been doing so well. I’ve taken good care of them.”

Her gaze flicked toward the front garden. There they were—tall, vivid, and luminous even in the silvery touch of moonlight. Each bloom seemed to stand proudly, perfect.

She remembered planting every single one. For Stanley. Just because he once casually said he loved tulips.

Back then, her world was him. His joys were her joys. And so, she’d knelt in the dirt, planting hundreds, thousands of bulbs without once asking why.

It wasn't until after everything fell apart—after she became trapped in her vegetative state—that Zoey began bringing tulips during her visits. Elegant bouquets bursting with colors.

Zoey would lean down, whisper into her ear, her tone sweet, almost playful. "You still don’t know, do you, sis? Tulips are my favorite flower. Must’ve been hard work, planting so many. Every time I visit your marital home, your garden makes me so happy."

…

A dark tendril of resentment curled in Jasmine’s chest. Her fingers moved of their own accord, snapping the stem of the tulip nearest her, clean and sharp.

She didn’t regret loving Stanley. Not the way she had, not with her whole heart. Jasmine had always loved fiercely, without reservation, giving without expecting. But her love… her love wasn’t something to be trampled.

They reached the grand doorway. Slowly, Stanley maneuvered her wheelchair to a stop. Jasmine stared at the entrance. The villa had been her canvas once, every detail a stroke of her own design. Even the door lock—a fingerprint scanner—had been her choice.

From her seated position, her hand naturally hovered near the scanner. Instinctively, she stretched her fingers toward it, ready to press. But before her skin met the device, a larger, stronger hand intercepted hers.

His palm was slightly damp. He was nervous. The realization stopped her, even before he spoke.

“Jas, let me get it,” Stanley said, almost too quickly.

There was a flicker of something in Jasmine’s unfocused eyes. Her sunglasses shielded her expression, but inside, her thoughts crystallized.

Her fingerprint wasn’t in the system anymore.

Her husband had erased her right to this home, this life.

Bitterness swirled, sharp as a blade. She wanted to laugh, but the sour ache in her chest made it impossible.

Obediently, she withdrew her hand, watching silently as Stanley stepped forward to unlock the door. Just as the lock released with a soft beep, a slender, manicured hand darted ahead to pull it open.

Zoey. Standing there as though she belonged, the picture of casual grace. Smiling, vibrant. The lady of the house.

Jasmine’s fingers curled tightly into her lap, nails biting into her palms as she fought to restrain herself. Rage clawed at the edges of her self-control. During those five years—those unending, torturous five years when her unmoving body languished in bed—had Zoey lived here? Slept in her bed, nestled into her husband’s arms? Played mother to the children she had borne?

Zoey’s confident smile faltered the moment her gaze fell on Jasmine in the wheelchair. The color drained from her face.

“Stanley, why are we just standing here?” Jasmine’s voice was calm, its coolness edging on sharp, “Push me inside, won’t you?”

From the reflection in the mirror across the hall, she saw Stanley gesture at Zoey, a quick, subtle motion—quiet! That’s when it hit Zoey. Of course. Jasmine couldn’t see.

Zoey forced herself to retreat, graceful as ever, stepping aside so Stanley could wheel Jasmine in.

Behind her opaque lenses, Jasmine’s gaze never left Zoey. Her attention snagged on the woman’s hand resting lightly on the doorframe, as if staking silent claim.

“Stanley,” Jasmine said softly, “I’m feeling a little cold. Could you grab me a shawl?”

“There’s a throw blanket on the couch,” he replied. “Wait just a second.”

As Stanley moved toward the sofa, Zoey’s eyes instinctively tracked his steps. Jasmine seized her chance.

With a sharp and deliberate movement, she slammed the door behind her.

Bang!

Zoey’s hand, still on the doorframe, was caught mercilessly in its closing jaws. She jerked backward, stifling a scream by clamping her other hand tightly over her mouth, trembling from the jolt of pain.

“Stanley!” Jasmine cried out, voice trembling with suppressed panic. Her hands fluttered in the air, reaching for him blindly. “I—I was trying to shut the door. I didn’t mean to… I don’t know what I hit! I’m scared!”

Stanley had every intention of walking toward Zoey, but Jasmine grabbed his arm in a frantic motion. He had no choice but to steady her first.

“It’s nothing,” he said gently, as if soothing a nervous child. “Just one of the kids’ toy balls. You couldn’t see it, but I’ll close the door. Don’t worry.” His tone was smooth, considerate even, but Jasmine caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes as though it were branded there.

“Stanley,” Jasmine pressed, her voice urgent. “Chris and Helen—where are they?”

She had named them years ago, when they were still growing inside her. Back then, she had imagined the day she’d call out to them in love and pride, holding their tiny hands.

Right now, Zoey—Stanley’s mistress, the woman who had shamelessly walked into Jasmine’s home—didn’t matter to her. Not in this moment. Jasmine’s only desperate longing was to see her two children, to hold them close, to lose herself in their little faces.

Five years. Five grueling years... She had survived with nothing but the thought of her children anchoring her to hope. She had endured, just to wake up to this day.

“They’re asleep,” Stanley said, keeping his voice low and dispassionate. “They’ve got school early tomorrow morning. You’re not ready yet—you’ve just woken up, and your eyes... you’ll need more time.”

Behind her sunglasses, Jasmine’s eyes dimmed with quiet helplessness.

She knew she couldn’t appear too eager, too desperate. Stanley was too perceptive; he'd grow suspicious if she pressed.

Before she could formulate a softer response, the rapid patter of footsteps broke the silence. She instinctively turned her head toward the sound. There they were. Helen and Chris appeared at the top of the stairs, their small hands clasped tightly together as they descended toward her.

The sight of them stole her breath. Her babies were dressed in mismatched pajamas—blue for Chris, pink for Helen. Their little feet shuffled in slippers too big for them. Jasmine felt a rush of emotion swelling, hot and uncontrollable, behind her eyes.

Chris was the first to speak. “Daddy,” he said softly, his gaze darting nervously to Jasmine. Something in his young face stiffened as though he’d pieced together who she was, and he clutched the hem of his pajama top in unease.

Helen, on the other hand, glanced directly at Zoey. Her eyes lit up as though Zoey were her favorite storybook heroine brought to life.

“Zo—” she began, but Zoey quickly shook her head, an almost imperceptible gesture. Helen paused, baffled but obedient, and closed her mouth mid-syllable.

Jasmine pulled her attention back to the children with an effort. Her voice trembled as she called out into the quiet room, “Helen? Chris? Is that you?” She opened her arms, her longing so raw it could be felt in every syllable. “I’m your mom. Come here, sweetheart. Let Mommy hold you.”

But Helen shrank back, fearfully retreating behind Chris. Only Chris hesitated, staring at Jasmine with that same guarded uncertainty. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward until he was close enough to reach out. With a tentative hand, he brushed his fingers against her face, as though verifying whether she was real.

“You’re really our mom?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, my love,” Jasmine replied, fighting to soften the shattering ache in her chest. “I’m your mother. I’m yours and Helen’s.” She spoke tenderly, carefully, aware of how fragile this moment was.

How she ached to sweep him into her arms, to smother his small body with the fierce kisses of years lost! But no. She couldn’t frighten him. To these two children, she was probably no more than a stranger who had appeared out of nowhere—a ghostly presence from stories half-remembered.

Stanley intervened, his tone both soothing and authoritative. “That’s enough for tonight. Chris, take your sister back to bed. We’ll explain everything in the morning after you’ve come home from school.”

Chris glanced at Jasmine again, a long, searching look, before obediently nodding. He turned, prepared to leave.

“Wait,” Jasmine called after him, her voice breaking. “My love, can Mommy hold you? Just for one moment?”

Her words pleaded more than her tone ever could. A tear slid silently from beneath her sunglasses, dripping onto her lap.

Chris faltered. He stopped, glancing at her over his shoulder, visibly torn. He looked ready to turn back, ready to close the distance between them. But before he could take a step, Stanley’s firm, fatherly voice cut through the fragile moment.

“Chris,” Stanley commanded. “It’s late. Go upstairs.”

Chris froze before nodding again, his small hand reaching for Helen’s. Together, the children ascended the stairs. Helen kept stealing backward glances—not at Jasmine, but at Zoey, her little face sparkling with affection as she blew an exaggerated, secret kiss.

Jasmine saw it all. She let her eyes fall shut for an instant, swallowing the bitter twist crawling up her throat. She could discard a cheating husband as easily as throwing out garbage—they could rot together, she and Zoey, for all she cared. But her children? No. Her children were hers. Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. No one, not anyone, could take them away from her.

After the children disappeared upstairs, Stanley returned to Jasmine and lifted her in his arms, carrying her back to the room she’d once called hers. Gently, he set her down on the bed as though she were something fragile—a gesture that rang false in its offhand kindness.

Jasmine let her eyes wander to the corner of the room. The wedding photo of her and Stanley, which had once graced the wall so proudly, now lay discarded in a heap on the floor. A dusty cloth had been tossed haphazardly over it, mercifully obscuring her face.

She felt the corners of her mouth curve upwards. A cold, wry smile.

He couldn’t even stand to look at her. Not even in a photograph.

“Get some rest, Jas,” Stanley murmured. His voice carried the same calculated softness it always did. “I’m going to the study to handle some work.”

Jasmine offered him a faint, placid smile. “Alright.”

She waited until the door clicked shut behind him before the mask slipped from her face. Her expression darkened, her lips tightening into a determined line.

She didn’t believe a word of it. Stanley wasn’t in the study.

Jasmine swung her legs over the side of the bed, movements stiff and painful. Bracing herself against the wall, she pushed herself to stand. Her legs screamed with each step. Agony, sharp and unrelenting, clawed through her body as she moved. Ten short meters separated her from the window, but every inch felt like a battle.

Five minutes. It took her five grueling minutes just to cross that small distance. By the time she reached the window, her breath came shallow, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked body.

But what she saw outside stole the air from her lungs entirely.

There they stood, nestled together under the pale moonlight—Stanley and Zoey—wrapped in a lover’s embrace.