The restaurant buzzed with New Year's Eve energy—spices, laughter, clinking glasses. Then Jasmine raised her voice, and every head turned toward our bedraggled group.

"Everyone, look!" She pointed at us, voice dripping with theatrical outrage. "These shameless people tried to dine and dash! Not a penny to their names, yet they have the audacity to claim my restaurant serves pre-made dishes. And now they're faking illness to skip out on the bill!"

Curiosity curdled into contempt. Whispers hissed through the room.

"High-end establishment, celebrity chef—pre-made dishes? Please. If you can't afford it, don't slander the business."

"Trying to scam people on New Year's Eve? How desperate can you get?"

"Old woman, drop the act. Isn't it humiliating enough getting dragged out like a sack of potatoes?"

"Look at the old geezer. One glance and you can tell he's trouble. Deserved getting his teeth knocked out."

My in-laws had lived lives of dignity. When had they ever endured such public degradation?

Zoe's face turned a terrifying purple. Her body seized, convulsed violently, then went completely limp against the floor.

"Wife!"

"Mom!"

My father-in-law and I screamed together, voices cracking. We begged the crowd for help, and finally, the severity pierced through their prejudice.

"Wait—" a diner muttered. "That looks like a real heart attack."

A man identifying himself as a doctor pushed through. He dropped to his knees and peeled back Zoe's eyelids.

"Pupils dilating. This is critical." He looked up urgently. "Nitroglycerin? Any heart medication? Now!"

I struggled against Jasmine's grip. "Let me go! I need to get her medicine!"

"Save the drama." Jasmine rolled her eyes. "If I let you go, you'll just attack me again."

"She's dying!"

The doctor began chest compressions. Someone finally dialed emergency services.

The security guards shifted uneasily. "Manager Maxwell, if something happens to the old woman, we could be liable..."

Jasmine's expression didn't waver. "They brought this on themselves. Came here to cause trouble—whatever happens, they deserve it." She tossed her hair back. "Besides, my boyfriend is the CEO of the Sanchez Group. With Anthony behind me, what's there to fear?"

Hearing his son's name used as a shield for murder, my father-in-law raised a trembling hand. He opened his mouth to curse, but no sound came. Rage choked him. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

"Dad!"

Sirens wailed closer until the ambulance screeched to a halt outside. Paramedics rushed in, and with the crowd's help, my in-laws were lifted onto stretchers.

Jasmine leaned in close, smirking. "You should be grateful those two old relics know how to play dead. Otherwise—"

I didn't let her finish.

Blinded by fury, I grabbed a wine bottle from the nearest table and smashed it over her head.

Glass shattered. Wine and blood sprayed into the air.

Jasmine clutched her head, screaming as she crumbled to the floor.

"Violet! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Anthony stormed in, eyes widening at the scene.

I pointed at the stretchers. "This bitch caused Mom's heart attack! Dad was so angry he collapsed! Does she deserve to live?!"

Anthony froze. For a split second, his gaze flickered toward his parents.

"Tony... darling..." Jasmine's weak, tearful voice pulled him back. She reached out with a blood-slicked hand, grasping his pant leg. "Violet refused to pay... she hit me... Those two were pretending to be sick to escape the check..."

The security guards chimed in like a rehearsed choir. "Yes! Mr. Sanchez, don't be fooled!"

The hesitation in Anthony's eyes vanished. He knelt to support Jasmine, then looked up at me, gaze ice-cold.

"You'd better pray she's fine," he spat. "If she isn't, your entire family will pay."

He turned to the guards. "Get her to the ambulance. Now."

The paramedics and the doctor were dumbfounded.

"Sir, that's impossible!" The doctor gestured to my in-laws. "These patients are critical—they need immediate transport. The woman has a head injury, but she's stable. Let the elderly go first!"

Jasmine let out a sharp wail, clutched her head tighter, and went limp in Anthony's arms.

His expression darkened. "Can't you see she's unconscious? Drive. Now."

"But sir—"

"If anything happens to her," Anthony cut in, voice low and dangerous, "Mercy General can forget the Sanchez Group's donation next year. Understand?"

The threat hung heavy. The nurse paled, gritted her teeth, and slammed the ambulance doors shut.

I watched in horror as the vehicle sped away—sirens wailing, carrying the woman who caused all this—while my dying in-laws lay on the cold pavement, waiting.

The doctor left behind at the restaurant scrambled to find transportation, his face pale with urgency.

Rage boiled through me. I raised my phone to snap a picture—evidence to force Anthony's eyes open.

Before I could focus, a heavy boot slammed down. A security guard snatched the device and crushed it under his heel.

"Mr. Sanchez's orders," he growled. "No photos. No videos. Unless you want to make an enemy of the Sanchez Group."

He turned to the crowd. "Cooperate, and all bills today are twenty percent off."

The diners complied instantly, heads bowing as they deleted the evidence.

I retrieved my phone from the asphalt—screen shattered, display dead.

The second ambulance finally screamed to a halt. I climbed in, clutching my father-in-law's hand as we sped toward Mercy General.

"Acute myocardial infarction," the doctor shouted over the siren. "Critical. She needs immediate surgery."

Beside me, my father-in-law stirred. Hearing the diagnosis, a sob tore from his throat before his eyes rolled back.

"Stroke indicators!" a paramedic yelled. "Vitals crashing!"

Thirty minutes later, I stood outside the ICU clutching two critical condition notices. My hands trembled.

They only wanted to surprise their son.

A nurse marched over. "Ma'am, we need the deposit immediately. Surgery cannot proceed without payment."

I reached for my wallet, then froze. Anthony had frozen everything. I didn't have a cent.

The elevator dinged.

Anthony stepped out, supporting Jasmine. Her head was wrapped in dramatic bandages, and she leaned into him, playing the fragile victim.

"Anthony!" I lunged toward them, waving the notices. "Mom and Dad are in the ICU! Sign the papers!"

He didn't glance at the forms. "Why should I finance your parents' medical bills? Read the prenup. Your family's debts are not my problem."

"They're your parents!" My voice cracked. "They came back to surprise you! Jasmine humiliated them until your mother's heart gave out!"

I pointed at his mistress. "Are you going to watch them die because of her?"

Anthony blinked. A flicker of panic crossed his face. He reached for the papers.

Jasmine's hand shot out, catching his wrist. "She's lying, Tony. Those two old beggars tried to scam us for a free meal. How could they be your noble parents?"

She glared at me. "Darling, don't be fooled."

The doubt in Anthony's eyes vanished. He withdrew his hand.

"If you claim they're my parents, I'll see for myself."

"They're in the ICU!" I cried. "You can't waltz in! Just call them!"

"Where is the family of Ms. Zoe Larson?"

The nurse's shout cut through like a blade.

Zoe Larson. His mother's name.

Anthony's expression shattered. He snatched the papers, scanning until his eyes landed on the patient's name.

"Zoe Larson..." he whispered. "These really have my parents' names..."

"Tony, no!" Jasmine dug her nails into his arm. "It's a trick! This bitch knows your mother's name. She put it on the forms to scare you into paying!"

The nurse rushed up to me. "You're Ms. Larson's daughter, correct? We need ECMO immediately. It's her only chance. Come pay now!"

I had no time for dignity.

I dropped to my knees on the cold tiles.

"Husband, please." Tears spilled over. "That's your mother inside. I'm begging you. Save her."

In three years, I had never bowed to him. Never begged.

Anthony looked down, conflict warring in his gaze. The papers shook in his hand. He opened his mouth—

Jasmine let out a sharp wail and clutched her head.

"Tony, honey! My head... it feels like it's splitting open! Save me!"

Jasmine's eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the floor.

Anthony didn't hesitate. He scooped her up and bellowed for a doctor.

I lunged forward, grabbing for his arm. "Anthony, wait—"

He kicked me back. Hard.

"Get lost!" His face twisted with fury. "Look what you did to Jasmine! And you still want money? In your dreams!"

He bullied the staff into prioritizing her—unconscious, nothing more—and they rushed her into the ER, slamming the doors in my face.

Shut out. Abandoned.

I sprinted to the ICU and dropped to my knees before the attending physician.

"Please." My forehead hit the cold floor. "Save her first. I'll get the money."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Sanchez." His voice was pained but firm. "ECMO requires prepayment. I can't override the system. Find the funds. Now."

I borrowed a nurse's phone. My hands shook so badly I could barely dial.

"Mom, Dad, please..."

They didn't ask questions. The transfer came instantly.

But the moment the notification pinged, the red light above the ICU went dark.

The doctor stepped out, peeling off his mask. He couldn't meet my eyes.

"I'm sorry. Your mother-in-law didn't make it."

My mind blanked. A hollow ringing filled my ears as the doors swung open and a gurney rolled out. A white sheet covered the body.

"Mom!"

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.

[Violet: Open your eyes. Your mistress killed your mother.]

Meanwhile, at the restaurant.

Jasmine had demanded discharge, claiming she needed fish head soup to recover. Anthony catered to her every whim, feeding her spoonful by spoonful.

A waiter approached. "Manager Maxwell? This bag was left by the table that... well, the ones who didn't pay yesterday. What should we do with it?"

Jasmine didn't look up. "Keep the bag. Trash everything inside."

Anthony paused. "What bag?"

She smirked and held up the Hermès. "This one. Limited edition. That bitch Violet must've used your money to buy her mother a luxury bag. The old woman really deserved to die."

Anthony snatched it from her hands.

The leather felt sickeningly familiar. His gaze dropped to the zipper pull.

Engraved in the metal: Jasmine.

His blood ran cold.