The scream tore from my throat. The exhaustion, the fear, everything I'd been holding back—it erupted at once.
The world tilted. Darkness swarmed my vision.
I collapsed.
When I woke, antiseptic burned my nose. A nurse stood nearby, speaking softly. Zoe's body was in the morgue. Leon had stabilized, but he was too fragile for shocks—we couldn't tell him his wife was dead.
I felt hollowed out. A shell.
"Can I use your phone again?"
I logged into WeChat. The first thing I saw was a video from Jasmine.
I pressed play.
A luxury hospital suite. Anthony and Jasmine tangled on the bed, locked in a passionate embrace. He kissed her deeply while clothes lay scattered across the floor—oblivious to the tragedy he'd just caused.
Then came her messages.
[Jasmine: Bitch. I pretended to faint and Tony dropped your mother's medical fees like hot garbage.]
[Jasmine: Is the old hag dead yet? She really deserved it. Hahahaha.]
Grief burned away. What replaced it was colder. Sharper.
I opened the photo gallery. The nurse had taken a picture of Zoe moments after she passed—eyes still wide open, staring at nothing, unable to find peace even in death.
I attached that image to Jasmine's video and screenshots.