Tumor In Her head.

Sensual Content Ahead. 🔞

This Book may be triggering for some. It is packed with Loads of erotic content, BDSM languages and Matured content I suggest that you stay off this book if younger than 21.

Chapter 1.

“Your last illness was caused by a mental condition. I’m sorry, Miss Jasmine, but I’m afraid you have a brain tumor. It must be operated on before it worsens and affects your thinking.”

A tumor. In her brain.

It felt like a death sentence wrapped in sterile sympathy.

The city of Palermo stretched endlessly outside the cab window, its golden sunlight casting deceptive warmth over Jasmine’s cold, trembling hands.

Her breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, the world blurred—not because of the cab’s movement, but because of the crushing pressure behind her eyes. But she didn’t cry. She never did.

Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The cab wove through the morning traffic, but she barely noticed. The towering glass structures of the business district loomed ahead, yet she felt like she was suffocating in an open space. It had been like this for the past week. And she had no idea when it would end.

Her body sat rigid, her long, slender fingers curled so tightly around her bag that her knuckles turned white. She barely registered the cab jerking to a halt.

“Miss, we’re here,” the driver’s voice snapped her out of her trance.

Jasmine blinked rapidly, the fog in her mind parting just enough for her to realize she had arrived. Without a word, she reached into her bag, shoved a few notes into the driver’s hand, and stepped out. The familiar scent of asphalt and freshly brewed coffee from a nearby café did little to ground her.

Her pointed-toe slingback heels clicked against the marble floor of the company lobby, each step echoing in her head like a gunshot.

The chandelier light shimmered above, casting a glow over her copper-brown hair. Heads turned in her direction, taking in the 5’8” slim-thick lady draped in an elegant white-on-white suit.

Employees greeted her with their usual mix of respect and fear, but today, she barely acknowledged them. The weight of her reality pressed against her spine, forcing her shoulders to hunch slightly as she stepped into the elevator.

As the vice president of an insurance company, Jasmine had fought for her place in this company with teeth bared and claws unsheathed.

Eighteen years without parents had taught her one thing—no one hands you power. You snatch it from the jaws of adversity.

Four years of relentless work, sleepless nights, and ruthless ambition had earned her the position of Vice President. No favors. No shortcuts. Just blood, sweat, and an iron will.

But today, her mind felt like a battlefield.

The moment she entered her office, she threw herself onto the couch, exhaustion sinking into her bones. The soft leather did little to comfort her. Instead, it swallowed her whole, dragging her back into the abyss of her thoughts.

Her brain pulsed painfully—a cruel reminder that time was against her. Two months. She had two months to gather money she didn’t have for a surgery she desperately needed.

The door creaked open, and she barely lifted her head before a familiar voice called out.

“Jas?”

Seraphina Moretti. Her best friend.

Dressed in business casual, the blonde exuded effortless confidence as she walked in, a file in hand. But her brows furrowed in concern as she studied Jasmine’s posture.

“This is the proposal for the app project,” she said, placing the file on the desk. “It needs your approval before it reaches the board.”

Jasmine barely reacted. She stared at the floor, her fingers gripping the fabric of her skirt.

“Jas, what’s wrong?”

She flinched at the tenderness in her friend’s voice.

“Nothing,” she murmured, shaking her head as if the motion could dispel the storm brewing inside her. But Seraphina didn’t buy it.

“Is this about your coma from last week?”

Jasmine hesitated. A heartbeat. Two.

Then, she exhaled sharply, shutting the conversation down with a curt, “It’s nothing.”

Seraphina sighed but didn’t push. “You know I’m here, right? If you ever need—”

Jasmine forced a small smile and nodded. “I know.”

But it was just a smile. Nothing more.

She wouldn’t ask for help. She never had. She never would.

The only person she had ever relied on was her aunt—Bitreace Romano. The woman who had raised her with love and shaped her into the fierce woman she was today.

Minutes after Seraphina left, Jasmine slumped deeper into her chair. The files on her desk blurred before her tired eyes. The proposal sat untouched.

Then, the door burst open.

The energy in the room shifted instantly.

The air crackled with tension as the manager stormed in, his presence like a thundercloud rolling into a clear sky. His face was twisted in rage, veins bulging at his temples. In his grip was a thick file, which he slammed onto her desk so hard that the papers inside scattered like frightened birds.

“You lost us the deal!” he barked, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, money is missing!”

His dark eyes burned with fury.

“Do you have any idea what this means for the company, Jasmine?” He seethed. “Millions are gone. And guess what? It’s being traced back to you.”

Silence descended.

The accusation lingered, thick in the air like the scent of something rotting.

Jasmine didn’t flinch. She didn’t cower. Instead, she sat still, her honey-brown eyes locking onto the manager’s with the sharpness of a blade.

Then, she laughed.

Slow. Bitter. Low and dangerous.

The manager took an uneasy step back.

Jasmine rose to her feet, her movements deliberate, controlled. A lioness standing to face an intruder.

“You dare accuse me of theft?” Her voice was silk laced with steel. But inside, a whisper of fear coiled tight.

“Do you think I clawed my way to this position just to throw it away on petty theft?”

The manager swallowed, but his fury didn’t wane. “The records say otherwise.”

Jasmine’s nostrils flared. “Then your records are wrong.”

The air between them grew suffocating, thick with tension. But Jasmine didn’t waver.

She had faced worse demons in her life—hunger, loss, loneliness.

A screaming manager? Child’s play.

Her fingers drummed against the desk. “I suggest you get your facts straight before barging in here like a rabid dog.”

The manager’s face reddened.

“Gather your files and sort out your facts before facing the board.”

With that, he stormed out, each step echoing his rage.

Jasmine exhaled sharply, her body rigid.

Her heart was pounding—whether from rage, fear, or exhaustion, she didn’t know.

Her jaw clenched, her anger shifting from fear to something darker.

First, they took her father.

Now, she had a brain tumor.

And as if that wasn’t enough, missing money was being traced back to her?

A slow, horrific smile curled at the corner of her lips, only to vanish as quickly as it came.

First, they stole her family. Now, they wanted her life?

No.

Not without a fight.

Jasmine exhaled, slumping back into the chair. Her slender fingers pressed against her forehead as weariness pulled at her.

One thing was clear.

Her life was spiraling.

And she had no idea how to stop it.