Heart-Stopping! Gino’s Life Threatened by Mysterious Virus Attacking His DNA, Jasmine in Tears!

Hospital monitor beeping fills the poorly lit room. Four lines pour liquids into Gino Palazzolo’s fragile body steadily. His once vibrant face is pallid, sweat building on his temples. He lies still, his chest rising and falling with short breaths.

Beside him, Jasmine Pan sits curled up in an uncomfortable medical chair, her hands securely around his. Her fingers shake as she thumbs his palm—a subconscious comfort gesture. Who needs it more, her or Gino, is not obvious.

She had always fought like hell from the beginning. Their relationship had been a battlefield with love, passion, jealousy, and treachery abounding. Nothing, however, had equipped her for this.

Her phone buzzes on her lap. Another alert flashes over the screen. Instagram is firing right now. Her post about Gino’s hospital stay has gone viral. She had thrown everything out there in her raw emotional state—the sickness, the doctor’s uncertainties, even his pornography addiction.

Her stomach turns with remorse. She wonders, Maybe I shared too much.

She studies the remarks. Thousands of people—fans, detractors, strangers—are analyzing their life and offering opinions as if they know her or what she’s going through.

One user probes:
“Why are you still with him? This man deserves not your tears.”

Another writes:
“Praying for Gino. One is an illness; addiction is another. Stay strong, Jasmine.”

The judgment battles with the outpouring of support. Jasmine shuts her phone and turns to check on Gino. He still hasn’t woken up. She lets out a quick exhale and runs her fingers through her knotted hair.

“Please wake up, Gino,” she says quietly. “I have no idea how to do this without you.”

Their Michigan residence now resembled a war zone. Their conflict had been intolerable, the atmosphere heavy with unsaid charges for weeks. Jasmine knew something was not quite right.

Gino had been evasive and detached, spending more time on his phone. He turned the screen aside every time she entered the room. Jasmine was not foolish; she was aware of the warning signals.

She had faced him at last one evening.
“What are you hiding?” she had insisted, crossing her arms, her eyes blazing into his.

Gino had shifted uneasily on the couch, his hands tightly clutching his phone.
“Nothing, Jasmine,” he said in a whisper.

She had noticed, though—the way his fingers quivered, his eyes flicked toward the TV, then away.

Jasmine had grabbed the phone from his hands before he could respond. She had lunged, ignoring his objections, her heart thumping as she scrolled through it.

Then there were the clear pictures. Private messages. Links to websites she wanted to ignore.

Her breath caught in her throat.
“Gino, what the bloody hell is this?” Her voice shook with fury, barely above a whisper.

His voice was frantic, full of guilt.
“Jasmine, it’s not what you believe,” he pleaded. “I’ve struggled with this for years. It doesn’t mean I love you less.”

But how could she trust him?

She had packed her bags that evening, poised to leave. But she had stopped. Something within her—a glimmer of hopefulness, or perhaps sheer exhaustion—held her back. The weight of their past crushed down on her shoulders, too heavy to bear but too painful to drop.

She had stayed. But their love had never been as brittle.

The doctor walks into the room, carrying a clipboard. Though his demeanor is calm, Jasmine isn’t fooled. She has visited hospitals enough to recognize the hesitancy before terrible news.

She braces herself and stands right away. The doctor starts, his voice even:
“Mrs. Pan, we have the test results.”

Jasmine grips the edge of Gino’s bed so tightly that her knuckles go white.

“Mr. Palazzolo has a major bloodstream infection. The rapid spread has affected several systems, but…” He pauses. Jasmine holds her breath.

“We have found the issue. We believe he has a strong chance of recovery with aggressive therapy.”

She exhales sharply, relief flooding her.
“Thank you, doctor,” she says, inhaling deeply before turning back to Gino.

As the doctor leaves, Gino hasn’t moved. His lips are slightly parted, as though caught midway through a dream. His body is still weak.

Then, his fingers start to twitch. Jasmine’s heart leaps. She moves closer, her breath catching as his eyelids slowly flicker open. Though hazy and unfocused, his eyes land on her.

“Jasmine,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

Her eyes fill with tears. She nods quickly, gripping his face gently.
“You’re in the hospital,” she tells him, her voice quivering. “You got really sick. But the doctors say you’ll be fine.”

His throat is dry, and he swallows hard. She softly dabs water onto his lips with a sponge. Still weak, his eyes fix on hers.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he says in a whisper. “For everything.”

Jasmine’s breath catches. Though the words are simple, they hold immense power. For weeks, months—years—she had begged him to own his mistakes and take responsibility. Now, stripped of all his defenses, lying in a hospital bed, he had at last done so.

Tears run down her cheeks.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she says quietly. “Right now, just relax.”

Gino softly nods, his fingertips brushing hers. She sits back in the chair, exhaling deeply.

Not by a long shot. This war is still ongoing. Truths remain to be faced, wounds yet to heal.

But, for now, he is alive. Perhaps, just maybe, they have a chance to start over. She squeezes his hand gently.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says softly. “We’ll make it through this—one step at a time.”

Gino closes his eyes, falling back into sleep. Jasmine stays by his side, clinging to hope.