The music vibrating through the exclusive event space was loud enough to mask the sounds of corporate anxiety and private grief, but not loud enough to mask Jasmin's flagrant disregard for decorum. She bypassed the waiters offering delicate flutes, heading straight for an open service station, seizing a cold bottle of Veuve Cloquet. With a decisive twist of the foil, she didn't bother with a glass, tipping the neck back for a long, fierce swallow.
Before the effervescence could completely sting her throat, a strong hand gripped her wrist, making the heavy glass bottle wobble.
"Enough."
Florentin's voice was low, laced with the strained patience of a man who owned the room but couldn't control the chaos standing next to him. He pulled her swiftly, navigating them past the periphery of the crowd and into a dimly lit, plush private lounge often used for emergency board meetings and discreet negotiations.
He released her, running a hand through his impeccably styled hair. "Jasmin, you can't do this! You should at least give a little respect to Davina. I have full trust in her for managing this company while I'm gone for a while, you should stop bringing Janina into this, she's long dead now."
The words—long dead—were delivered as a statement of fact, a plea for reality, but they landed on Jasmin like shrapnel. Her shoulders stiffened.
"Do I look like I don't know that?" Jasmin spat, setting the bottle down on a mahogany table with a jarring thump. She moved closer, forcing him to meet the intensity in her eyes. "That doesn't mean she is no longer my best friend. She's still here, in my memory, my heart, my body, my soul, get it!" she finished, her voice dangerously tight.
Florentin recoiled slightly, recognizing the dangerous, unwavering devotion that had defined their relationship dynamic for years. He tried to pivot back to logic, the language of business he understood.
"This company belongs to my family, Jasmin. Davina is my sister. She is a very intelligent person when it comes to business. Janina is not my family, is that clear!"
"She dreamed of owning this one day, Florentin."
He reacted in patent disbelief, his expression hardening into a cold mask of corporate protection. "Then she should have built her own, not sought to acquire my property. Even if Davina steps down, the company is meant to benefit my niece's future, not be handed over to you or anyone else."
Jasmin allowed a slow, predatory smile to touch her lips, the first genuine change in expression since she'd entered the room. "Accept that we made a deal, Florentin. It's fair and square. If I don't do my job for her for a month—if I fail to meet the targets we set—then Davina owns this outright, no contest. I'm looking forward to this challenge to get started."
She didn't wait for his reply. The room was heavy with the smell of old leather and unspoken accusations. She spun on her heel and swept out, leaving Florentin letting out a long, shuddering sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of his familial and corporate responsibilities pressing down while the ghost of Janina, invoked by Jasmin, swirled uncomfortably in the air.
Jasmin's intended destination was the dance floor—a place where the physical exertion and the pounding bass provided a temporary anesthetic. But as she merged back into the crowded corridor, a different kind of obstruction appeared. Martin, Janina's widower, stood directly in her path, his expression earnest and slightly too eager.
"Jasmin, it's better if we talk," Martin said, sounding annoyingly rational amidst the noise.
Jasmin's eyes rolled so dramatically they almost hurt. "About what?"
"About us. You should think it's better for yourself to move on and start over."
Jasmin let out a dramatic, exasperated sigh, tilting her head back against the wall. "Start over? I am doing it, Martin. I have a major corporate deal to deal with Davina; I don't have time for romantic stuff. You can live without being so romantic, so why can't you be so loyal to Janina and forget her so easily?"
Martin's calm facade cracked slightly, replaced by defensiveness. "She's been dead for years, Jasmin. Why should I cry over her for so many years?"
The answer was automatic, but the casual callousness of it stopped Jasmin cold. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not a grieving husband, but a man seeking comfort and convenience, eager to replace what was lost. The disappointment she felt was profound, a heavy weight that settled in her chest.
"That's why men rarely care about their own wives, huh," she whispered, the edge of fury gone, replaced by bitter deflation.
Without another word, she side-stepped him. Martin reached out instinctively, wanting to call her back, to explain his need for normalcy, but she was already gone, disappearing into the vibrant, flashing energy of the dance floor, where the music was loud enough to drown out the sound of a broken heart and a broken promise. Martin stood rooted, confused, unwilling to give up on the idea of a future, yet already feeling the sting of her rejection—a sting that felt distinctly like a judgment delivered on behalf of the dead.
The fluorescent light of the executive atrium seemed too bright, reflecting painfully off the high-gloss surface of the interactive console. Davina's fingers were rigid where they hovered over the digitized roster of security professionals. However, Davina was observing the other bodyguards that she was now looking in the list of the Top A class, she couldn't believe herself that Jasmin was in the part of the list. Jasmin, her long-standing professional nemesis, was listed right below the senior tier, a glowing endorsement of her talent. Davina pressed her lips into a thin line, the professional tension tightening the muscles in her neck.
Henry now notice how she feels too stressed looking all the bodyguards in the list. He approached cautiously, leaning a hand on the console, effectively blocking her view of the screen.
"Don't you even think it's not worth it to deal with Jasmin, also working this company as well. Why are you agreeing at this at all?" Henry wondered, his tone measured, laced with familiar fatigue. Davina sighs with annoyance, swatting his hand away from the screen.
"Are you saying that it's okay for me to surrender to her?" Davina said, the question sharp, defensive.
Henry shook his head. "I don't quite understand what's so special in this company that you have to fight with Jasmin. You've had better offers, cleaner transitions." He watched her face, searching for the core reason behind her relentless ambition. "Forget Jasmin for a second. What is it you really want?"
Henry let out a sigh, the sound heavy in the silence of the empty office suite. "You know what I always want. I wanted at least to have a son. You know how happy I am to imagine if we had a little boy in our family."
The professional anger in Davina instantly curdled into pure marital rage.
"Shut up, Henry. Are you so ungrateful that at least we have one child then you want another? Are you kidding me?"
His shoulders slumped. "Ugh... It doesn't mean I'm so ungrateful, I'm happy that we had a child."
"Then what is your problem?!" Davina demanded, her voice rising to a dangerous pitch.
A soft, hesitant voice cut through the quarrel from the doorway. "Why is this an never ending argument." Andy wondered, standing halfway in the room, her backpack strap tight across her chest. She was bothered seeing her parents arguing over again.
Davina then looked at her, her eyes blazing with redirected fury. "Then ask your stupid father."
Henry's jaw tightened. "You don't have to call me stupid! I only wish one and you know it's not bad if I wanted it so bad."
"I told you that I don't! After I give birth it was fucking traumatizing, the pain, everything! It's easy for you to get what you want because, your role was impregnating me, right? You don't even have respect on my decisions right now!" Davina slammed her hand down on the desk, rattling the console.
The venom in the room was suffocating. "Please, Mom, not like this. Stop this nonsense, please." Andy sighs, utterly stressed out listening to them. She wanted to leave in the company for a while, anywhere that didn't vibrate with the constant, exhausting friction of their lives.
The ritual was five years and one day old. Every day, regardless of the weather or her own heavy schedule, Jasmin brought flowers. Sometimes it was a single rose, sometimes a spray of lilies, but always fresh. It wasn't just a routine; it was the physical manifestation of a promise she had made long ago, a pact with a friend she still cherished fiercely.
Today, however, carried a heavier, more resonant weight. It marked the five-year anniversary of Janina's death.
Jasmin adjusted the arrangement of white and pale yellow freesias in her hands, taking a deep, steady breath before knocking on the familiar oak front door of the Hoffmann house.
The door opened almost immediately, revealing Mrs. Hoffmann. Janina's mother looked remarkably well for a woman who carried such a persistent grief, though the lines around her eyes were permanent etchings of loss. She looked particularly surprised today, perhaps because Jasmin rarely deviated from her late afternoon visits, and this was midday. She saw the bouquet and her expression softened into a familiar blend of pity and affection.
"Condolence, Mrs. Hoffmann," Jasmin greeted, the words feeling formal and inadequate after half a decade.
Mrs. Hoffmann didn't reply immediately with words. Instead, she stepped forward and pulled Jasmin into a tight, warm hug—a hug that always smelled faintly of laundry detergent and lilac soap.
"Thank you for being so consistent on visiting my place, dear," Mrs. Hoffmann said, holding her at arm's length to study her face warmly. She took the flowers, her fingers brushing Jasmin's. "But don't always treat my place into a graveyard, you know. It's still my home." The mother's gentle giggles dissolved the solemnity just enough to make the moment bearable.
"For me, it's the important day to visit Janina," Jasmin insisted, her voice thick with conviction. "And our friendship will always remain the same. I always promise that."
Mrs. Hoffmann's eyes shimmered. "Thank you for valuing Janina as a best friend. I am very lucky to meet someone like you. Truly, I am like I'm having a daughter again because of you. I always thank you for that, Jasmin."
Jasmin quickly nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Of course. I'm always at your side."
The air inside the house was thick with history and comfortable silence. Mrs. Hoffmann placed the freesias carefully into a crystal vase on the hall table, treating them with the reverence Jasmin intended. Then, she gave Jasmin a quiet look of understanding, knowing exactly where she would go next.
Jasmin drifted down the hallway to Janina's old room. The room hadn't changed much in five years; it was a museum of adolescence, a perfect, preserved time capsule. The walls were still painted a vibrant azure, the bookshelf still contained dog-eared fantasy novels, and the worn, braided rug still lay near the window.
As Jasmin stepped across the threshold, the present fractured. The adult who stood there—a woman navigating her professional life, steady and self-contained—was instantly overwritten by the memory of a scared, small girl.
She saw herself, twelve years old, silent and bruised, sitting on that exact rug. The color had drained from the room then; everything had been gray, suffocating. She remembered the sheer, paralyzing terror of her own body, her own existence.
Mrs. Hoffmann slid into the room quietly, shifting instantly from the gentle grieving mother to the determined protector she had been years ago. She placed a small, covered plate on the floor beside the child-Jasmin.
"I know you don't want to come out, but here's the food. At least I want you to eat well," Mrs. Hoffmann said, her voice low and firm. "Janina told me you're struggling. You don't have any family left who can protect you."
Little Jasmin just shook her head, clutching her knees tightly. "I will be leaving..." she whispered, the idea of imposing on Janina's family too heavy to bear.
Mrs. Hoffmann shook her head fiercely, sitting nearby. "You don't need to. I don't want you to get hurt by that old man! Either Walter or what he did to you. You can stay here whatever you want, we are all family here."
The mention of her father and the unspoken horror was too much. Twelve-year-old Jasmin erupted, the silence finally breaking in a sound of raw agony.
"That baby is the child of my own father!" she shouted, the guilt and the violation a visible shroud around her.
Mrs. Hoffmann didn't flinch. Her face remained a mask of resolute understanding. She leaned forward, reaching out slowly. "The child is innocent, and I will protect her too against your father. He is the one to blame, not you or your child, even your brother."
The mother gripped Jasmin's small hands tightly, anchoring the twelve-year-old in a moment of undeniable, selfless comfort. That touch, that promise, had saved her life. It was the moment the Hoffmann house stopped being just her best friend's place and became the only home she had ever known.
Jasmin's eyes blinked rapidly, pulling her back to the present. The scent of freesia was now mixing with the faint, comforting residue of lilac soap. She was standing in the middle of Janina's room, five years after Janina had passed.
She realized, with a profound clarity, that the flowers she brought were not just for Janina's memory, but for the life Janina's family had given her. The ritual of the visit was a daily renewal of a debt she could never repay, a promise that the love and sacrifice they had shown her would never be forgotten. Mrs. Hoffmann's house wasn't a graveyard; it was the foundation upon which Jasmin had finally built her new, safe life.
Then she lay on the ground, where she could imagine that Janina was beside her listening. The cool earth pressed against Jasmin's back, a welcome anchor in the swirling tempest of her thoughts. dappling her closed eyelids with shifting patterns of gold. Here, in this quiet, sacred space, she allowed herself the indulgence of imagination.
"I will do anything to make your dreams come true, Janina," Jasmin whispered, the words a solemn vow carried on a breath of wind. She pictured Janina beside her, slender and vibrant, a soft smile gracing her lips, her eyes, always so full of fierce ambition, now peaceful. "Don't worry about me, Davina is easy to deal with. Just a minor obstacle."
The image intensified, filling her mind's eye until Janina felt real, a comforting warmth against her side. "Be careful out there," Janina's voice echoed in her imaginary ear, a gentle warning that nevertheless held the weight of a past sorrow.
"I will," Jasmin murmured in response, a promise whispered to a ghost. The resolve in her heart hardened, a blade sharpened on the whetstone of grief.
A crunch of gravel, then the soft padding of footsteps, jolted Jasmin from her reverie. Her eyes snapped open, the imagined Janina dissolving like mist. She quickly sat up, then stood, brushing bits of dry grass from her jeans. Mrs. Hoffmann, Janina's mother, stood a few feet away, a beaming smile creasing her kind face, holding a plate laden with freshly baked cookies. Just like old times, when the three of them would sit in the garden, Janina excitedly detailing her latest coding project, Jasmin listening patiently, and Mrs. Hoffmann fussing over them with treats.
"I love it when you have time to visit again, sweetie," Mrs. Hoffmann said, her voice warm and melodious. "It's good to see your beautiful face."
Jasmin didn't hesitate, already plucking a still-warm chocolate chip cookie from the plate. The familiar taste, rich and comforting, brought a wave of bittersweet nostalgia. "Of course, Mrs. Hoffmann. I would never miss a chance to see my best friend's mom, the woman who's always been there for me." She took another bite, savoring the familiar deliciousness. "Though, I will be busier starting tomorrow. Dealing with some spoiled brat like Davina will be... challenging, but I know I'm doing this for Janina."
Mrs. Hoffmann's smile faltered slightly as she gently placed the plate on a nearby garden table. She reached out, her aged hands enclosing Jasmin's. "Don't forget to take care of yourself too, darling. As I get older, I just want to know that you're doing fine. You know, being a bodyguard is very dangerous, especially when things get personal." The last words were spoken with a knowing look, a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken pain they shared.
Jasmin squeezed Mrs. Hoffmann's hands, a genuine smile softening her features. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hoffmann. I will never forget about myself. Or about you." She leaned in and gave the older woman a quick, affectionate hug, drawing comfort from the familiar scent of lavender and warmth.
The sun had long set by the time Jasmin arrived home. The small apartment, usually her sanctuary of quiet solitude after a long day, felt different tonight. There was an undercurrent of unease she couldn't quite place. Ignoring it, she headed straight for the bathroom, eager to wash away the day's grime and the lingering emotional weight. The hot water cascaded over her, a soothing balm, as she lathered her body with jasmine-scented soap.
A sudden, insistent knocking at the bathroom door shattered her peace. Her eyes snapped open. "What now, Walter?!" she called out, annoyance lacing her tone, her hand still busy soaping her arm, not wanting to open the door.
"It's Martin!" a loud voice corrected, a hint of frustration in his tone. "And I can't keep my mouth shut! I need to talk to you about something serious!"
Jasmin rolled her eyes. Martin. Of course. "Oh, please just let me finish my shower," she retorted, injecting a heavy dose of sarcasm into her voice. "I don't want to be fed with some soap!" She turned the shower back on full blast, hoping the noise would deter him, but knowing Martin, it wouldn't.
She finished her shower quickly, a sense of foreboding settling in. Dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweats, towel-drying her hair, she found Martin in the living room, perched stiffly on the edge of her sofa, a picture of strained patience. He usually never waited.
"What do you want now?" Jasmin asked, her voice clipped, already anticipating an argument.
Martin finally looked up, his intense gaze locking onto hers. "If I acted weird a while ago, it's because of this. You and I, dealing with Davina... why are you being so hard on her? She's your client, or was. And now she's my client too."
Jasmin nearly dropped her towel. "What? You too? We're going to work together again like there's no other adventure more than that? What happened to the other team?" Her surprise quickly morphed into disbelief, then anger. The last time they'd worked a protection detail together, Martin had spent half the time criticizing her methods and the other half trying to get her to "be more professional."
Martin ran a hand through his perpetually neat hair, a clear sign of agitation. "Because Davina doesn't trust you after what you did, Jasmin! What were you thinking? Challenging her on her own turf, trying to 'own a company' you couldn't possibly handle. Davina is a businesswoman, a shark. You're not."
Jasmin finally let the towel fall, her jaw tight. "Do I look like an idiot who doesn't know who she is? So your purpose here is to lecture me and become Davina's puppet as well? Look how easily she takes advantage of you." The accusation hit a nerve, and she knew it would. Martin, for all his professionalism, harbored a deep-seated desire to prove himself, and being called a "puppet" was a direct assault on his pride.
Martin's face flushed. He shook his head, irritation radiating from him. "I'm not even Davina's puppet! Don't make up stories that are nonsense, Jasmin."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Jasmin waved a dismissive hand, turning to head for her bedroom. "You try to pull some kind of sad boy era on me. Come on."
"Well, I'm not!" he called after her, his voice tight with denial.
"Alright, then let me sleep because tomorrow is the big day," Jasmin said over her shoulder, already halfway to her door. Before Martin could utter another word, she was gone, the soft click of her bedroom door signaling the end of their conversation, at least for tonight.
She knew Martin was right, in a way. Davina was dangerous, and Jasmin's personal vendetta against her was a liability. But the thought of Janina, the memory of her vibrant dreams, quelled any wavering doubts. She would navigate the corporate jungle, use her bodyguard instincts to predict Davina's moves, and somehow, reclaim. For Janina, she would do anything. Even if it meant working with Martin, and pretending, for a while, to be Davina's protector. The irony was not lost on her.