Grayson stared at Jasmine in a daze.
Her head was bowed slightly, and the wounds on her once‑flawless face were so shocking to behold. Her eyes looked so dim.
"Jasmine, you…"
"Grayson, I wasn't avoiding you—I really didn't mean to." Jasmine choked out the words. "I just didn't want you to see me like this. I must look awful right now."
She tilted her head to one side, letting her hair fall to obscure half of the bruised side of her face.
"So that's why you made up all those excuses—so I wouldn't see you like this." Grayson suddenly understood, and his heart ached all the more. What a thoughtful girl she was—and he had misjudged her again.
"What happened? How did you get hurt?" Grayson tenderly pushed her hair aside to look at the cuts and bruises. He felt as if her injuries were his own.
"Nothing serious… I slipped on the stairs when I came out of the dorm this morning." Jasmine avoided his gaze.
Grayson refused to believe it.
"Come on—tell me the truth!" Grayson's voice hardened as he gripped her shoulders.
At once, a big tear rolled down Jasmine's cheek. She began to sob—not just with sorrow, but with a mix of grief and relief. Of course she would cry: in this campus, no one had ever cared about her, not once. She felt like a ghost drifting through the halls, invisible and alone. But now someone cared so deeply.
Jasmine's tears poured out as she surrendered to the wave of emotion. She had never cried so freely in her life. All those nights she'd sat alone in some hidden corner, wiping tears in silence. She never felt she deserved to let it all out. But now, because someone truly cared, she let her grief spill.
"Were you bullied? Tell me." Grayson gently wrapped his arm around her frail shoulders. She was so slender, as if weightless—so desperately in need of a warm harbor.
"Yes… Kayla and the others hit me." Jasmine steadied her breathing, wiping her tears. "But it's okay now."
Kayla was the ringleader of the three girls at the Häagen‑Dazs shop. Along with Tiffany and Destiny—her dorm mates—they'd always been hostile to Jasmine. Grayson had assumed their cruelty was only verbal. To learn they'd gone this far enraged him.
"I will make them pay!" Grayson's eyes burned with cold fury.
"Please—don't go after them." Jasmine gripped his sleeve. "They have powerful parents. If you confront them, you'll only anger them—and it'll backfire on you."
Her gaze was earnest.
"I—will stay away from them," Jasmine said, lowering her head in guilt. "I'm sorry for causing you trouble."
She looked so apologetic, as if his anger were entirely her fault. How sensitive she was.
"Let's get you to the hospital," Grayson said. He could not focus on revenge now; first, he needed to heal her.
"It's expensive to go to the hospital." Jasmine produced a bottle of alcohol swabs and cotton buds from behind her back. "Could you… help me disinfect these wounds?"
She closed her eyes and tilted her chin upward, offering him her face. Tear stains and water droplets still glistened on her skin; her nose quivered from pain. Yet her lips held a faint, hopeful smile—she was waiting for him to tend her wounds.
What could be more touching than having the person you care about treat your injuries?
Grayson's heart ached as he looked at the simple alcohol swabs. After such a savage beating, she'd relied on these meager items to care for herself. If he hadn't come upon her, she might have stayed hidden, treating her wounds alone in some remote corner.
He gently cleaned her cuts, then half‑carried her back to the campus clinic.
"The wound is serious—you need three stitches." The doctor examined her.
Grayson's pupils constricted, his fists clenching. He watched as they cleaned, disinfected, stitched, and bandaged her.
"Thank you, Grayson. How much do I owe you? I'll pay you back." Jasmine's voice trembled as they left the clinic together.
"No rush—don't worry about it for now."
"You haven't eaten, have you? Let me treat you—let's go have noodles!"
"I'll treat you," Grayson said, stopping in his tracks and pointing ahead.
"Oh—La Trattoria!"
He led Jasmine to the entrance of La Trattoria. He had planned to nourish her after everything that had happened; now, more than ever, he was determined.
"This place is so expensive," Jasmine whispered, reluctant to step inside.
Grayson smiled, took her hand, and led her in. They found a table, and Jasmine sat stiffly, unused to such upscale surroundings.
Grayson ordered several dishes. "Wait here—I'll get you a dessert," he said, heading to the small pastry counter in the corner. It wasn't Häagen‑Dazs, but it was good.
"Okay."
Jasmine watched him go with a startled excitement—he seemed so at ease here. Even now, she sensed a hint of mystery about him, as if he hid deeper secrets beneath his calm exterior.
As Grayson's back receded, she felt her heart lighten. His care for her was like a spring rain, reviving her parched soul.
"Hey, if it isn't Jasmine!"
A voice shattered her thoughts. Jasmine involuntarily shivered.
Like a cruel twist of fate, Kayla and her two cronies appeared.
"Still craving luxury, huh? First ice cream, now La Trattoria! The school's hardship grant is for studying, not partying!"
"Lazy pauper—taking subsidies to gorge yourself. You're the parasite of this campus!"
"Look at your bandaged face." Kayla lunged and yanked on Jasmine's hair to bring her face forward. "You never went to the hospital before—just wiped with alcohol. Now you've got money and act like a princess?"
Pain flared in Jasmine's bandaged wounds. She clamped her lips shut, fighting back tears, her glare defiant.
When she saw Grayson still at the dessert counter, unaware of the scene, she drew a breath of relief. She struggled to her feet.
"Trying to run away?" Kayla taunted. "Funny—she never ran before. Now she begs, then bolts. What a show!"
Jasmine ignored them and hurried for the exit, desperate to leave before Grayson saw.
But as she rounded the corner, she collided with someone.