Zoey clung tightly to Stanley’s waist, her arms wrapped around him with a possessiveness that seemed, to Jasmine, almost desperate. The tulips that Jasmine had painstakingly planted herself swayed gently in the breeze around them, creating a tableau so picturesque it might have come from a painting—if not for the bile rising at the back of her throat.

Jasmine let out an audible, bitter laugh, one so sharp it felt like it could cut through glass.

Through the window, she watched Stanley gently but unmistakably disentangle himself from Zoey’s grip. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a lipstick—hers. The one she’d dropped accidentally. He handed it to Zoey with an easy, practiced motion. The pair exchanged a few words she couldn’t hear, some quiet banter laced with a familiarity that burned Jasmine’s eyes nonetheless.

Then Zoey rose on her tiptoes, leaning in to kiss him. That was the moment Jasmine turned away, disgust curling through her like smoke. She couldn’t watch any longer. Shuffling away from the window, her steps dragging slightly, she headed into the walk-in closet.

The closet, meticulously designed, was cavernous. Jasmine’s clothes lined one side, each piece perfectly arranged. Most were simple dresses, understated in style and serene in color—neutral tones, soft whites, pale grays. The wardrobe of someone restrained, genteel, and unassuming. Someone Stanley liked.

But they weren’t clothes she would’ve chosen for herself.

White dresses suit you, Stanley had once said, his tone decisive. So she’d obliged, time and again, dressing herself to mirror his ideal—his vision of her. It was a role she had played for years, wearing the silent uniform of devotion, trading away little fragments of herself for fleeting moments of his approval.

Jasmine nearly laughed. How pathetic could she get?

Her hand reached for the concealed compartment in the back of the wardrobe, her movements mechanical, her fingers finding it without hesitation. She pulled it open. Inside was a small collection of items—a passport, ID cards, two unused cellphones, a clutch of bank cards—and a single document folder, fat and overstuffed. The embossed title on the cover read Habridge University, the sharp, clean font digging into her skin like the edge of a blade.

Her gaze grazed it briefly before recoiling, her eyelids slamming shut as if burned. That folder held the evidence of her largest, most permanent regret. The life she might have chosen, the trajectory that might have saved her.

But not now. Not yet.

She picked up one of the phones and powered it on, her fingers moving with deliberate care. The device hummed to life. Pulling up the contacts, she was relieved to see that the list was intact, untouched—at least he hadn’t erased this.

Her thumb hovered for a fraction of a second before pressing down. She dialed a number.

The ring barely started when there was an answer. Daisy Zinn’s voice erupted from the other end, as brash and familiar as ever, its warmth undeniable.

“Jas? Is that you?” Daisy started talking before Jasmine could even say a word. “Listen, if this is Stanley—if that dog of a man is messing with my sleep again—tell him I’ll roast his reputation alive! My eighty million followers aren’t just for selfies, let me tell you!”

Jasmine couldn’t hold it back; she laughed—a sound sharp with years of disuse, but tender nonetheless. For the first time in forever, a genuine comfort blossomed inside her chest.

“It’s me, Daisy,” she said at last, her voice gentler than she’d intended.

A stunned silence followed. Jasmine could practically see her friend on the other side of the line, frozen, her mouth agape. She counted down under her breath. Three... two... one...

And then, predictably, came the scream.

“AAAAHHHHH! Jas! My baby! You’re back! Oh my God, I missed you so much! Are you at home? At the hospital? Tell me the address and I’ll run over right now!”

Jasmine could hear the light sniffling beneath Daisy’s words, the rage simmering just louder than the tears. “Goddamn Stanley! That bastard. You’ve been in that coma for five years, and I swear—every time I tried to visit, his lackeys blocked me! He didn’t even let me send you flowers! Can you believe that? The audacity!”

Of course Jasmine could believe it. Stanley hadn’t just isolated her physically; he had severed every connection she had to the outer world. Daisy wasn’t the only one he’d kept at bay.

But Jasmine couldn’t afford a reunion yet. Not now, when things were still so precarious, pieces on the board only beginning to shift.

“I can’t see you yet,” she said carefully, steadying her voice. “But I need you to help me with two things.”

“Anything. Name it.” Daisy’s fierce loyalty tightened around Jasmine’s heart like a protective embrace. Then, with a casual growl, Daisy added, “Just say the word, and I’ll hire someone to eliminate Stanley for you.”

There she was—Jasmine’s Daisy. Always unapologetic, her love uncompromising.

Jasmine chuckled softly. “As tempting as that is, let’s start with this: I need you to find out everything there is to know about someone named Zoey. She’s... his secretary. The more details, the better.”

“Oh, I’ve been side-eyeing her for years,” Daisy growled. “That woman acts like she’s Mrs. Hughes herself, clinging to him at every public event you weren’t conscious for. Don’t worry, Jas. Consider her history dug up.”

Jasmine fell quiet, her hand tightening over the phone.

Zoey had originally been her secretary—a kind face brought in by Stanley during her pregnancy, ostensibly to help ease Jasmine’s workload. But now she saw it for what it was. A front. The start of something neither innocent nor professional.

A deceit painted in soft words and supposed concern.

“And the second thing?” Daisy pressed.

Jasmine inhaled, gathering her thoughts. “Tomorrow, can you get some gardeners over to the house? I want...” She hesitated briefly, thinking of the tulips that festooned the yard, their floral faces so loved by Stanley and so loathed by her. “I want to rip up all the tulips in the front garden.”

“And plant yellow roses!” Daisy exclaimed, triumphant.

Surprised, Jasmine paused. “How did you know?”

Few people had ever known about her affection for yellow roses, especially in the years where she’d hidden the preference entirely, her lips sealed by Stanley’s dictates. Daisy, being her old college roommate, certainly might have guessed, but the confidence in her answer was startling.

“Guess I’m not as clueless as you think,” Daisy muttered. After a beat, she added cryptically: “Or maybe it’s just because he told me.”

Jasmine froze. Her grip on the phone faltered. “He? Who?”

The name Daisy gave struck like a thunderbolt.

“Dylan Parker.”

Jasmine’s breath hitched, the sound jagged. Her pulse reverberated in her ears like the pounding of a storm.

Dylan. She knew that name all too well. Every steel-cut syllable of it. And more than the name, she knew the image of his face—the impossible combination of beauty and danger, a handsomeness so sharp it bordered on cruel.

The last time she’d seen him was seven years ago, in an airport. Recalled now, the memory felt too vivid, too immediate. She hadn’t simply left; she’d fled. His shadow filled her mind: his tall, lean frame blocking the path, the sunlight streaming in behind him casting his already stunning features into a chiaroscuro of fury and disdain.

She had turned her back on him. On his question, his one last attempt to reach her: Jasmine, is it worth it?

Now, staring into her sunken reflection, Jasmine had her answer. A decade too late, perhaps, but no less real.

No, Dylan. It wasn’t worth it. But don’t worry—I’ll clean up the pieces of my own disaster. And this time... I’ll make sure it’s final.