Under the Spotlight
Chapter 22: The Geometry of Healing
The return journey to the house was wrapped in a heavy, fragile quiet, a stark contrast to the explosive violence that had just shattered the night.
Inside the back of the car, the cool Seattle rain pelted against the glass in a frantic rhythm, but the climate inside the vehicle had completely shifted.
The toxic, competitive games they had been playing all week were entirely gone, burned away by raw adrenaline and mutual shock.
Jaafar didn't care about his rigid boundaries anymore. He didn't care about the script. He sat close to Jasmine, his large hand firmly enveloping hers, his fingers interwoven with hers so tightly that his knuckles were white.
Every few minutes, he would lean in, his voice dropping into a low, deeply strained murmur. "Are you okay? Jasmine, talk to me. Are you alright?"
Jasmine didn't look at him, her eyes fixed blankly on her lap, but she didn't pull her hand away. In fact, she squeezed back, her fingers trembling against his skin. A profound, heavy wave of guilt and distress was rolling off her.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking as a fresh wave of mortification hit her. "I am so incredibly sorry, Jaafar. The entire night... ruined. And you..."
She finally turned her head, her eyes welling with tears as she looked at the dark, swelling bruise forming underneath his right eye, a clean laceration slicing across his cheekbone where Dylan's fist had connected.
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine," Jaafar insisted, his jaw tightening as he felt a fresh surge of protective anger.
"I can't believe he was there," Jasmine choked out, a bitter, broken laugh escaping her lips as she shook her head in disbelief. "I haven't seen Dylan in months. I thought he was out of my life. To show up there, in front of everyone, and say those things..."
"Hey. Look at me," Jaafar commanded gently, using his free hand to lightly touch her chin, forcing her to meet his intense, dark gaze. "He's an absolute idiot. A pathetic coward who wanted to hurt you because he can't handle how successful you are without him. Do not give him the satisfaction of taking up space in your head. He's nothing."
Jasmine let out a ragged breath, the fierce sincerity in his eyes acting like an anchor against the panic swirling inside her chest.
When the car finally pulled up to her childhood home, they moved like thieves in the night.
They crept up the wooden porch steps, carefully unlocking the front door and slipping into the dark entryway, holding their breath to ensure they didn't wake Karen. They moved in perfect, synchronized silence up the stairs, quietly closing the bedroom door behind them.
The dim, warm light of the bedside lamp flickered on. The second Jasmine looked up at Jaafar in the proper light, her breath caught.
The cut on his cheekbone had started to bleed again, a thin, dark crimson trail trickling down his jaw, staining the collar of his wet jacket.
"Oh my god, you're bleeding," she whispered, the panic returning to her eyes. "Come here. Come into the bathroom right now."
Jaafar didn't argue.
He followed her into the small, confined bathroom, the space instantly feeling microscopic as the door closed behind them. Jasmine frantically opened the medicine cabinet, pulling out a small first-aid kit, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a handful of cotton balls.
"Sit," she commanded softly, gesturing to the closed toilet seat.
Jaafar sat down, his tall frame making him look massive in the small space. Jasmine stepped directly into his personal space, her bare knees brushing against his trousers as she leaned over him. She uncapped the bottle, soaking a cotton ball in the cool liquid.
"This is going to sting," she murmured, her voice dropping into an impossibly soft, tender register.
The second the damp cotton touched the open wound on his cheekbone, the hydrogen peroxide hissed against his skin. A sharp, burning spike of pain shot through Jaafar's face.
He instinctively closed his eyes tight, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth audibly ground together as he fought the urge to flinch away from her touch.
But as his eyes shut, his other senses violently amplified.
The proximity was absolute torture.
Jasmine was standing so close he could feel the radiating, damp heat of her body, still smelling faintly of the vanilla shampoo from earlier.
The air in the bathroom grew thick, heavy, and suffocatingly hot. Suddenly, Jaafar's mind violently betrayed him.
The memory of the last time they had been locked in a bathroom together—the electric, forbidden heat of the club in Chicago, the way her body had felt pressed against his before he broke her heart—flashed behind his eyelids with a terrifying vividness.
He tried to fight the thoughts.
He tried to force himself to think of Laurel, to think of his real life, to think of the contract.
Get out of his head. Get out.
But it was useless.
The phantom pressure of her lips against his was right there, mocking his self-control.
Sensing his intense discomfort, Jasmine paused.
Her expression softened into something purely instinctual, entirely stripping away the pop-star persona. Slowly, with an agonizing gentleness, she raised her left hand and placed her palm flat against his uninjured cheek. Her skin was incredibly soft, her thumb lightly stroking his jawline to steady him, her touch a tender, soothing balm designed to ease his pain.
Jaafar's eyes snapped open.
He stopped breathing entirely.
He was looking directly up into her face, their eyes locking in a silent, agonizingly intimate gaze just inches apart. The touch of her hand on his cheek felt like a live electric wire, sending a violent shudder straight down his spine.
Every single cell in his body was screaming at him to lean into her palm, to raise his own hand, wrap it around her waist, and pull her down into his lap. He wanted to bury his face in her neck and forget the entire world.
He was locked in a brutal, suffocating war with himself.
His conscience was screaming at him to pull away, to protect his boundaries, to remember the ring waiting in Los Angeles.
But as Jasmine's thumb continued to trace the ridge of his jaw, her eyes dropping briefly to his lips before rising back to his dark, tormented gaze, Jaafar realized he was fighting a losing battle. The line between the lie and the truth hadn't just blurred anymore—under the dim lights of her childhood bathroom, it had completely dissolved
She leaned back just an inch, her hand sliding off his cheek as she reached into the first-aid kit to pull out a small bandage. With a focused, quiet precision, she pressed it gently over the fresh cut on his cheekbone, smoothing down the edges with the tips of her fingers.
Once the wound was covered, her eyes drifted downward, locking onto his hands resting on his thighs.
She reached out and took his right hand, turning it over in hers. Her brow furrowed as she noticed the angry, swollen redness blooming across his knuckles—the physical evidence of the brutal punch he had landed on Dylan's jaw.
"Your knuckles are swollen," she murmured, her voice laced with a quiet distress. "You need ice. Sit here, I'll go get some."
She slipped out of the bathroom, her bare feet making no sound on the stairs as she went down to the kitchen.
Jaafar sat in the quiet, dim space, the throbbing in his face and hand nothing compared to the frantic racing of his heart.
A minute later, Jasmine returned, wrapping a handful of ice cubes in a clean kitchen towel. She stepped back into his space, gently taking his hand again and pressing the cold compress against his bruised knuckles.
Jaafar let out a soft hiss at the sudden chill, but he didn't pull away.
"You shouldn't have done that," Jasmine whispered, her eyes fixed on the towel as she held the ice in place. "You shouldn't have thrown that punch. You shouldn't have defended me."
Jaafar looked up at her, the protective fire that had ignited in the bar sparking in his chest all over again. "I wasn't going to sit there and let him treat you like that, Jasmine. I couldn't."
He paused, catching the intense, raw emotion in his own voice, and quickly pulled back his shoulders, trying to rebuild his crumbling defenses. He cleared his throat, correcting himself to flatten the intimacy of the moment. "I mean... nobody deserves to be treated that way. By anyone."
Jasmine looked up from his hand, her gaze locked onto his for a long, quiet second. She searched his eyes, noting the sudden emotional distance he was trying to put up, and simply nodded.
She didn't press him.
She just swallowed her words, finished holding the ice for a few more moments, and packed up the first-aid kit.
Silently, they walked out of the bathroom and back into the small, dimly lit bedroom.
Jaafar sat down on the edge of the double bed, his hands resting on his knees, while Jasmine began pacing the small space, the tension in her body vibrating through the quiet room. The heavy, toxic words Dylan had thrown at her were clearly poisoning her mind, tearing at her from the inside out.
Suddenly, she stopped pacing, turning to face him. Her eyes were wide, glittering with a mixture of old pain and fresh fury. "How can he sit there and say that?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she clutched her arms around herself. "How is it possible for him to say that my album is full of lies? After everything... after everything I went through because of him."
Jaafar didn't say a word. He shifted his posture, sitting up completely straight, ready to listen.
In all the 4 months he had known her—through the whirlwind of their initial connection, the explosive breakup rumors, and the tense corporate meetings—Jasmine had never once opened up about her private life.
She had always kept her past locked behind a towering, impenetrable wall of pride and pop-star perfection. They had never shared an intimate, vulnerable conversation like this.
But as the rain poured against the windowpane of her childhood bedroom, the armor was completely gone. The time had finally come, and Jaafar held his breath, entirely ready to finally learn who the real Jasmine was.
Jasmine let out a sharp, bitter breath, shaking her head as she looked toward the window. "He has the nerve to talk about my relationship?He doesn't know the first thing about what a real relationship is. He has absolutely no right to judge how I love, or how I hurt."
As the words poured out of her, fueled by a raw, unyielding frustration, she walked over to her dresser. Without a single trace of hesitation, she reached for the hem of her shirt and smoothly pulled it over her head, completely unfazed by his presence.
Jaafar's eyes widened in sudden panic.
Realizing she was actively stripping down to change right in front of him, a violent wave of embarrassment hit him.
He whipped his head around, staring rigidly at the wall, his face burning.
Jasmine, however, was completely untethered. She was treating him like an invisible fixture in her room, entirely consumed by the volatile memories Dylan had dragged to the surface.
The rustle of her clothes dropping to the floor echoed loudly in the quiet space.
"Does he honestly think that manipulating someone, pulling them into bed, and spinning a web of endless lies counts as a relationship?" she continued, her voice dripping with a dangerous, icy sarcasm that vibrated through the small room.
Jaafar kept his back firmly turned, his fists clenching as he listened to the soft friction of fabric sliding over her skin. He was fighting a brutal mental war, holding his breath until the bed springs softly groaned behind him, signaling she was finally under the covers.
Slowly, cautiously, Jaafar turned his head to look back at her.
The air completely left his lungs, and he felt a sudden wave of dizziness wash over him.
Jasmine was sitting propped up against her pillows, wearing nothing but a thin, silk slip pajama set for the night. The delicate, translucent material clung to her golden skin, effortlessly tracing the soft, breathtaking curves of her body under the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp.
She looked devastatingly beautiful, and Jaafar had to physically steady himself on his feet just to keep from losing his mind.
Trying desperately to anchor his thoughts back to a safe, platonic reality, he cleared his gravelly voice. He leaned against the edge of her desk, looking down at her. "How long... how long were you two actually together?"
Jasmine blinked, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face.
She looked at him for a quiet moment, clearly caught off guard by the fact that he was genuinely asking, before her gaze softened into a distant, heavy sadness. "Three years," she murmured quietly. "We were practically kids when it started. We grew up together in this city. But... looking back, you couldn't really define it as a real relationship."
Sensing her rare willingness to be vulnerable, Jaafar stepped closer to the bed, the actor inside him completely fading as his personal curiosity took over.
He wanted to understand the pain that had written her album. He wanted to know every single thing that had shaped her. "What happened between you two?" he asked softly, prompting her to continue.
Jasmine pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin against them as she stared into the empty space. "We fought constantly. Every single day was an explosive battle. He started using drugs heavily after high school, and... he was never himself anymore. The boy I fell in love with completely vanished, replaced by this paranoid, toxic stranger."
A sudden, terrifying protective instinct flared violently in Jaafar's chest.
His posture locked, his dark eyes searching her face with an intense, burning worry. "Did he ever hurt you?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a low, strained whisper. "Physically, Jasmine. Did he ever lay a hand on you?"
He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs in terrifying anticipation. He only allowed himself to release a long, ragged sigh of relief when Jasmine slowly shook her head, dismissing his worst fear.
"No," she replied softly, her voice entirely calm. "He never hit me. I mean... sometimes the sex was a little rough, a little aggressive, but that wasn't the problem. That was just how we channeled the chaos."
The words hit Jaafar like a physical blow to the chest.
An involuntary, vivid image violently flashed behind his eyelids—a sudden, scorching mental picture of Jasmine beneath him, her dark waves splayed across his own sheets, her breath hitched under the dominant, possessive weight of his own body.
The raw suggestion of her surrender made a heavy, suffocating heat flare deep in his stomach.
A wave of intense self-loathing instantly followed; he felt like the absolute worst man on earth for letting his mind wander to such a highly charged, sexual place while she was trying to heal from a traumatic past.
He violently shook the image from his head, clenching his jaw as Jasmine's voice brought him back to reality.
"But Dylan was right about one thing tonight," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she tightened her arms around her shins. "He was completely right about my obsession. I do try to save broken men... because I couldn't save my father."
The shift in the room was instantaneous. Jaafar's entire demeanor locked in, his absolute, undivided attention completely zeroing in on her.
The phantom imagery vanished, replaced by a profound, heavy gravity.
He walked over and sat on the very edge of the mattress, his dark eyes scanning the profound sorrow etched into her features.
He thought about the bulletin board on the wall, the distinct, aching absence of a paternal figure in her childhood photos.
"What happened to your father, Jasmine?" he asked, his voice incredibly gentle, laced with a deep, reverent tenderness. "Why don't you ever speak about him?"
The question hung in the silence of the bedroom like a heavy, suffocating anchor.
Jasmine didn't answer.
The vulnerable girl who had been speaking just a second ago instantly vanished, her expression locking down into a completely blank, hollow mask. She fixed her eyes on a single, motionless knot in the hardwood floor, her breathing turning shallow as she completely shut him out, her silence growing louder with every passing second.
Watching her withdraw into that dark, untouchable place of grief, Jaafar felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret pierce his chest. He silently cursed himself, deeply text-book furious that his curiosity had pushed her too far, shattering the fragile sanctuary they had just managed to build in the quiet of the night.
Just as Jaafar was about to back track and apologize for pushing her too far, Jasmine's lips parted.
Her voice came out hollow, barely above a whisper, echoing with a grief so profound it seemed to age her instantly.
"He was an addict, too," she said, her eyes still locked on that single spot on the floor. "But it didn't start until we lost my brother."
Jaafar felt his entire body lock in place.
He silently shifted his weight, moving further onto the mattress, sitting down completely on the edge of the bed so he could be closer to her. He had absolutely no idea she had a brother. The label, the biography notes, the interviews—no one had ever mentioned a sibling.
"He was only two years old," Jasmine continued, her breathing turning shallow as she spoke the words aloud for the first time in years. "He choked on a hard candy. He drowned in his own saliva before the ambulance could even reach the house. He died right in the living room downstairs."
Jaafar swallowed the hard lump in his throat, a devastating ache opening up in his chest. He didn't interrupt; he just sat there in the dim light, offering her his absolute silence as she unlocked the heaviest vault of her soul.
"After that... everything shattered," she murmured, a stray tear finally spilling over her lashes. "My mom fell into a deep, dark depression. It took her years, but she eventually fought her way out of it. But my dad... he never came back from it. He completely broke. He started using heavy drugs to numb the pain, lost his job, and within months, the man who used to read me bedtime stories was gone. He became completely unrecognizable. Dangerous. Violent. You couldn't speak to him without triggering an explosion."
She paused, swallowing hard, her shoulders trembling under the thin silk of her pajamas. "He never laid a hand on my mom or me. At least... not intentionally."
Jaafar's brow furrowed, a heavy, confused dread wrapping around his heart. Not intentionally? The phrase twisted painfully in his mind, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, unspoken question.
Instead of explaining with words, Jasmine slowly raised her hand to the delicate neckline of her silk slip pajama top. With a trembling finger, she gently pulled the thin fabric slightly to the right, exposing the smooth, golden skin just above her right breast.
Jaafar leaned in, and his breath completely hitched.
There, resting permanently against her skin, was a jagged, pale white scar about three inches long. He had never noticed it before—on stage she wore high necklines or heavy makeup, and during their brief, chaotic encounters, he had been too blinded by adrenaline or desire to see the map of her trauma.
"I was six years old," Jasmine whispered, her eyes brimming with fresh tears as she stared at the old mark. "My mom and I were in the kitchen making dinner. He came home completely out of his mind, high on something heavy. He had run out of drugs, and he was screaming, tearing the house apart looking for money. He started throwing things off the counters, completely manic. He snatched a heavy kitchen knife and hurled it across the room in a blind rage. It struck me."
A violent tear slipped down her cheek, her voice breaking completely. "I remember the blood. I remember the screaming. But mostly, I just remember the blinding pain. I screamed at first, but then I forced myself to stop crying. Even at six years old, I was so terrified that if he saw how badly he hurt me, the guilt would drive him to do something worse to himself. So I just held my chest and stayed quiet."
Jaafar couldn't take the distance anymore.
The absolute tragedy of her words tore down every single wall he had left.
He slid across the mattress, closing the space between them entirely, and reached out to grasp her shaking hand, squeezing her fingers with a fierce, grounding warmth.
Jasmine looked up at him through her tears, her face completely pale. "I spent the next seven years trying to save him, Jaafar. Even though I was just a kid, I would steal his stash and flush it down the toilet. I secretly looked up rehab clinics in the library, printing out papers and leaving them on his dresser. I begged him on my knees to get help. But he always refused. He always chose the drugs over us."
She let out a ragged, choked sob, her posture completely collapsing. "Until I walked into the living room after school one Tuesday afternoon... and found him cold on the floor. I was thirteen. Overdose."
The raw, agonizing confession detonated in the quiet room. Jasmine completely broke down, her pride shattering into a million pieces as she buried her face directly into Jaafar's chest, her body wracked with heavy, violent sobs.
Jaafar didn't hesitate for a single fraction of a second.
He threw his arms around her, pulling her tightly against his frame, wrapping her in a fierce, unyielding embrace. He brought his large hand up to the back of her neck, his fingers gently cradling her nape, anchoring her head securely against his heartbeat.
He had never seen her like this.
The fierce, untouchable pop star who had terrorized his sanity all week was gone; in his arms sat a broken, grieving child who had been carrying the weight of a shattered family on her bare shoulders for a lifetime. He felt an overwhelming, almost suffocating wave of love and protectiveness crash through his entire being.
He didn't care about his engagement. He didn't care about the PR stunt. In this room, at this exact moment, she was his entire world.
"I'm so sorry, Jasmine," he murmured into her damp hair, his own voice thick with emotion as he rocked her gently in the dark.
He pressed his lips softly against the top of her head, his grip tightening as if he could physically hold her pieces together. "I am so, so incredibly sorry you had to go through that alone. You were just a little girl... it shouldn't have been your burden to carry."
He pulled back just enough to look down into her tear-stained, beautiful face, his thumb tenderly wiping the wetness from her cheeks.
"You are the strongest person I have ever met in my entire life," he whispered fiercely, his dark eyes burning with an absolute, unscripted sincerity. "Do you hear me? You are so incredibly strong. And you are safe now"
Jaafar pulled her back into his arms, holding her even tighter, letting the final tremors of Jasmine's crying slowly fade against his chest.
They remained like that for long minutes, completely enveloped by the sound of the Seattle rain rhythmic beating against the windowpane.
Then, with her voice reduced to a tired, exhausted whisper, Jasmine pulled back just a fraction, looking up at him with her eyes still glossy and red. "I'm tired, Jaafar. So incredibly tired."
"I know," he replied with an infinite, soft tenderness.
Understanding that it was time for her to rest and finally unplug her mind from that hell of memories, Jaafar began to lift his body from the mattress. He intended to give her space and settle onto the floor inside the sleeping bag, just as they had agreed before everything collapsed.
But before he could pull away, Jasmine's cold fingers shot forward, catching his arm.
She held him back with a desperate, almost childlike strength. "Stay," she begged, her eyes wide as they locked into his, entirely stripped of any malice or provocation. "Can you... can you sleep here with me? Just for tonight. Please."
Jaafar froze.
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back at her tear-stained face. He knew he should refuse, that every single inch of this bed was dangerous territory.
But how could he say no to a request like that? They were just two friends sleeping together to offer comfort after a traumatic night. Only a total maniac would think otherwise or see something dark in it.
With a slow, heavy nod of his head, Jaafar consented. "Just for tonight."
He lay back down on top of the covers, keeping his back propped against the headboard of the bed.
Jasmine didn't hesitate; she immediately curled right up against his side, letting her head drop onto his chest and intertwining her fingers with his once more. The room plunged back into absolute silence, but Jasmine's mind was still racing.
"Maybe that's the only kind of love I'm destined for," she whispered suddenly, her hollow voice getting lost in the dark. "A love that hurts, that destroys. A love where I always have to sacrifice myself just to save someone else."
Hearing those words ignited a sudden spark inside Jaafar. Without thinking, he reached out with his free hand, gently caught her chin, and tilted her face up, forcing her to look straight into his eyes. "No," he told her, his voice firm, deep, and completely unwavering. "Don't you ever say that again. No one is destined to suffer like that. You less than anyone."
Jasmine traced a bitter, faint smile, her gaze drifting over the details of his face, lingering for a breathless second on his lips before rising back to his eyes. "You and Laurel are so lucky to have each other," she said, a note of genuine envy lacing her voice. "You have a perfect, healthy relationship... I wonder if that will ever happen to me. I wonder if one day I'll find someone who truly loves me."
That sentence hit Jaafar straight in the heart, driving deep into his stomach like a sharpened blade.
It was a violent, physical reaction.
The mere thought of Jasmine in another man's arms—the thought of someone else running his fingers through her hair, breathing in the scent of her skin, kissing her with the exact same desperate urgency that he felt every single second of the day—deeply wounded him. A suffocating wave of jealousy and acute pain wrapped around his chest, cutting off his air. The idea that she might one day belong to someone else was literally destroying him from the inside out.
But looking down at her fragile face, he knew he couldn't afford to be selfish.
Not now, not after she had opened up her soul so completely.
He swallowed the bitter lump tightening in his throat, forcing himself to give her a slow nod. He took a deep breath and offered her the most genuine smile he could muster.
"You deserve it, Jasmine," he whispered, tenderly tracing her cheek with his thumb. "You deserve it more than anyone in this world. And I hope for it with all my heart, too."
And just like that, enveloped by the steady, unyielding hum of the Seattle rain, they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms.
The space between them vanished completely.
Jasmine's face remained buried in the crook of his neck, her breathing slowing down into a soft, warm rhythm that puffed directly against his collarbone.
Jaafar kept his chin resting gently on the crown of her head, his strong arms locked securely around her waist, anchoring her small body to his chest as if he were guarding the most precious, fragile secret in the world. With every slow, deep rise and fall of her chest, he felt the heavy, peaceful cadence of her breath matching his own, their bodies synchronizing in the quiet dark of her childhood bedroom.
But while Jasmine finally found a sanctuary of peace in his embrace, Jaafar's mind remained a turbulent, beautiful battlefield of emotions before sleep finally claimed him.
Holding her like this—devoid of the toxic games, the biting sarcasm, and the public manipulation—evoked a profound, almost terrifying clarity within his soul.
For weeks, he had lied to himself. He had hidden behind the shield of his corporate PR contract, his moral boundaries, and his safe, orderly engagement to Laurel.
He had categorized his intense obsession with Jasmine as mere physical attraction, a temporary madness triggered by adrenaline and dangerous circumstances.
But as he felt the soft, genuine weight of her sleeping against him, the lie completely shattered.
It wasn't just desire.
It was a deep, soul-shattering affection that terrified him to his very core. He felt a profound, suffocating sense of reverence for the girl in his arms—the girl who had survived a lifetime of trauma, who carried a pale scar on her chest, and who still had the capacity to dream of a real, untainted love.
The protective instinct humming in his veins was fierce, almost violent; he wanted to shield her from her past, from Dylan, from the predatory music industry, and from anyone who would dare to make her feel small again.
Yet, a dark, agonizing wave of guilt bitterly laced through his tenderness. The phantom weight of Laurel's engagement ring seemed to burn like acid in his luggage downstairs. He was actively crossed the line, actively holding another woman in the dead of night, sharing a level of raw, unscripted emotional intimacy he had never experienced with his own fiancée.
He felt like a fraud, a man living a double life, trapped in a beautiful, agonizing purgatory.
He knew that tomorrow the sun would rise, the cameras would turn back on, and they would have to step back into the arena of their high-stakes game.
They would have to put back on their armor.
But tonight, listening to the rhythmic cadence of her breath, Jaafar tightened his grip around her just a fraction more, burying his face deeper into her scent. He let himself lose the war against his conscience, choosing instead to find absolute peace in the terrifying, beautiful truth: he was completely in love with her, and he never wanted to let her go.
~~~~~~~~~~ Author's space ~~~~~~~~~~
This was a such intense chapter to write. And we could understand more about her life. And finally jaafar recognised his feelings for her. But will it still be the same tomorrow? Or they go back to normality?
Thanks for reading
Xx
-F
AGHHHH IM SO FUCMING SMART I FUCKING KNEW THIS WAS JASMINES BACKSTORY. EVEN BEFORE THE DAD WAS MENTIONED I JUST HAD A DEEP FEELING. AND OMGGG THE LAST LINE !?!? JAAFAR CONFESSSING BRUHHHH IM MELTING…. I EFFING LOVE THIS SERIESSS
