My Husband Let His Mistress Kill His Mother

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.