“Real strength isn’t about knowing how to strike. It’s about knowing when not to.”
Her jaw tightened.
Slowly, she forced her hands to relax, releasing the defensive stance her body had instinctively taken.
For a brief moment, a flash of controlled power passed through her dark eyes—so intense that Whitney unconsciously stepped backward.
But Jasmine said nothing.
Instead, she stood tall and walked toward the exit, leaving a trail of spilled sauce behind her but carrying her dignity intact.
In her mind, she repeated one number:
Three hundred and twelve days.
That was how long remained until her scholarship review.
That scholarship was her only path forward. The only way to honor the sacrifices of her grandmother, Ruth Carter, who had raised her since her father died of a sudden heart attack three years earlier.
When Jasmine reached the tiny apartment on the south side of Chicago, the contrast was impossible to ignore.
The smell of lemon cleaner and herbal tea filled the air—signs her grandmother had briefly returned home between double shifts as a hospital nurse.
The apartment was so small that every night Jasmine unfolded the old living-room sofa to make her bed.