"Mom, my drawing won first prize," Justin beamed. "I drew you, me, and Uncle."
"Mom, they asked me why I don't have a dad..."
"Mom, when can you come home?"
Richard said that Justin was remarkably mature for his age, wise beyond his five years in a way that was heartbreakingly endearing.
Sometimes, witnessing the boy's precociousness made him achingly aware of how much Justin's young heart craved a sense of security and a mother's love.
...
"Don't cry, Mom. You've got me." Justin nestled into Jasmine's embrace, a mere child himself, starved for maternal affection and a sense of safety.
As Jasmine held Justin close, her gaze inadvertently caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. Pale and gaunt, with bloodless lips; she looked like she was just a heartbeat away from fading into nothingness—unrecognizable from the former belle of the San Francisco socialite scene. And yes, Daniel had cruelly hit the mark—she could pass for a beggar on the street. Her body was a mere shadow of its former self.
Confined to a storage room by Daniel and dizzy from hunger, Jasmine realized she hadn't eaten in quite some time.
"Are you hungry, Mom?" Justin's stomach echoed his words.
Biting her lip, Jasmine whispered a soft reassurance, "Be a good boy, Justin. Mom will find us something to eat."
After coaxing Justin to sleep, she cautiously left the room.
Daniel hadn't bothered to stick around; he was off to the hospital to visit Serena, his fiancée.
Stealthily making her way out of the courtyard, Jasmine spotted the nanny and asked timidly, "Do you have...any food? The child is hungry."
The nanny looked at her with disdain and snorted, "Hungry, are you?"
She went into the kitchen and returned with two bowls of rice, which filled Jasmine with a brief flicker of hope. But instead of offering them, the nanny walked past her and dumped the food into the iron pan used to feed stray dogs by the roadside.
Jasmine's gaze darted away and tears welled up in her eyes.
Starving, she realized she and Justin needed to find a way to eat. She didn't have a penny to her name.
"Where do you think you're going?" The nanny's voice was sharp with irritation as Jasmine moved towards the door.
"Justin... Justin is here. I won't run. I just need to step out for a moment," Jasmine explained quietly, her voice laced with desperation.
The nanny huffed, indifferent to Jasmine's plight. Serena had made it clear: no food for Jasmine and any means necessary to drive her away should be employed.
Emerging from the Tranquil Manor into the chilly San Francisco autumn air, Jasmine rubbed her hands together for warmth. It wasn't freezing, but the cold seemed to cut to the bone.
With no money and a hungry child to feed, she felt at a loss. Approaching a trash can, she began collecting discarded bottles, hoping that if she gathered enough, she could exchange them for a few coins.
"Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Who do we have here, if it isn't the stunning Jasmine?"
The Richman District was home turf for Jasmine's former classmates.
After hearing the sarcastic tone behind her, Jasmine's shoulders tensed up. "You've... got the wrong person."
But the woman wasn't about to let her off that easily, and she shoved Jasmine to the ground.
"Serena told us you got out of the slammer, but we didn't believe it. Looks like you really did.”
Jasmine curled up, not daring to look up.
The assailant, Zelda Brown, the second heiress of the prestigious Brown Family and Jasmine's former classmate, had always harbored a powerful envy towards her.
In the past, Jasmine had always steered clear of Zelda, intent on avoiding trouble. Now more than ever, she couldn't afford to provoke her.
"Look at you now, Jasmine," Zelda cooed, stepping deliberately onto Jasmine's ankle.
"Ahh!" Jasmine yelped in pain as her ankle began to swell.
"You really have no shame, impersonating the Wilson Family's heiress for over twenty years, you trash picker," Zelda sneered as she patted Jasmine's face and then viciously slapped her.
Jasmine's ears rang, but it seemed she had grown accustomed to it.
These past five years, she had taken her fair share of beatings in prison.
Tears gathered, but Jasmine just kept her head down, silent.
"You dare to touch her? She's filthy," another rich Miss said with disgust, quickly pulling out an alcohol wipe. "Clean your hands, quick."
"Didn't you hear she got a room at a hotel with some random guy and had a child? It's disgusting. She'll sleep with anyone; she must be carrying all sorts of diseases," the rich Miss said with a sneer.
Zelda, also disgusted, took the alcohol wipe and scrubbed her hands vigorously before throwing it at Jasmine's face, then kicked her squarely in the chest.
The pain left Jasmine breathless as she curled up beside the trash can, gasping for air.
All she could do was endure; she couldn't contend with these people right now.
She needed outside help; she needed a protector...
Only with solid backing could she fight back; otherwise, all her current struggles would be tantamount to courting death.
Ethan Douglas was her only lifeline in San Francisco.