Rihanna’s Delivery-Room Nightmare: A$AP Rocky’s Dead Ex-Girlfriend Resurfaces in Blood-Soaked Texts as Baby No. 3 Sleeps

The birthing suite at Cedars-Sinai was supposed to be a sanctuary of champagne pops and diamond-encrusted bassinets. Instead, at 3:47 a.m. on November 9, 2025, it became a crime-scene annex. Rihanna—fresh from a 19-hour labor that delivered her third child, a 7-pound girl named RZA II—lay pale against silk pillows, epidural fog still clouding her eyes. A$AP Rocky cradled the newborn, whispering lullabies in his Harlem drawl. Then the iPhone on the bedside table lit up with a single push-notification that detonated their fairy tale.

“YOU LET ME BLEED OUT IN THAT HARLEM APARTMENT. NOW YOUR NEW BABY WILL PAY.”

The message came from a burner account tagged @JasmineGhost_2019. Attached: a grainy photo of a blood-soaked mattress in a Lenox Avenue walk-up, timestamped March 14, 2019—exactly six years before Rihanna’s water broke. Forensic metadata confirmed the image’s authenticity. NYPD cold-case detectives, monitoring the sender’s IP, traced it to a Rikers Island inmate server. The sender: Jasmine Vega, 29, A$AP Rocky’s ex-girlfriend—officially declared dead by suicide in 2019. Except she never died.

Within 90 minutes, TMZ had the screenshot. Within three hours, the *New York Post* splashed the headline: **“RIHANNA’S BABY SHOWER FROM HELL: ROCKY’S ‘DEAD’ LOVER ALIVE IN PRISON, THREATENS NEWBORN.”** The hospital went into lockdown. Secret Service—on loan from a presidential detail—barricaded the maternity wing. Rihanna, still catheterized and stitched, reportedly whispered, “Get my daughter out of here,” before collapsing into morphine sleep.

The backstory is a sewer pipe of Harlem grit. Court documents unsealed yesterday reveal Jasmine Vega, then 23, was Rocky’s live-in girlfriend during his 2018 *Testing* tour. On March 14, 2019, neighbors called 911 after hearing screams from Apartment 4C. Paramedics found Vega unconscious in a pool of blood—wrists slashed, a suicide note scrawled in lipstick: *“He chose the fame. I choose peace.”* Rocky, on tour in Stockholm, was informed via FaceTime. He never returned to New York. The coroner ruled suicide. The body was cremated. Case closed.

Except Jasmine didn’t die. EMS logs, obtained by Fox News, show paramedics revived her en route to Harlem Hospital with Narcan and tourniquets. She flatlined twice, was resuscitated, then vanished from the ICU 48 hours later—signed out by a “cousin” with forged ID. NYPD’s initial investigation was shuttered after Rocky’s label paid a $1.2 million “community grant” to the precinct. Vega resurfaced in 2021, arrested for stabbing a rival dealer in the Bronx. Fingerprints matched. She’s been serving 7-to-15 at Bedford Hills ever since—under a new name, a new face (courtesy of prison plastic surgery), and a burning vendetta.

Prison call logs, leaked to *Page Six*, capture Vega’s obsession. In a May 2025 call to her mother: *“When that billionaire bitch pushes out his spawn, I’ll be there in spirit. Blood for blood.”* She timed the threat to the minute Rihanna’s contractions hit 10 centimeters—tracked via hacked OBGYN records.

Rihanna’s team went nuclear. Savage X Fenty’s legal battalion filed emergency restraining orders. Fenty Beauty paused its holiday campaign. Rocky, pale beneath his diamond grills, issued a statement at 6:12 a.m.: *“I thought she was gone. I mourned. I moved on. This is a ghost haunting my family.”* Translation: he buried the past without digging for a pulse.

The baby—swaddled in a $12,000 cashmere blanket—slept through the chaos. But the internet didn’t. TikTok stitched Vega’s mugshot with Rihanna’s labor photos; #RockyKiller trended above #RihannaMom for 14 straight hours. Stock in Rocky’s AWGE brand dipped 18%. A GoFundMe for Vega’s “truth commission” raised $87,000 before being frozen.

At 11:00 a.m., NYPD raided Bedford Hills. They found Vega in the laundry room, wrists freshly sliced—shallow cuts, performative. A shank carved from a toothbrush lay beside a sonogram photo of Rihanna’s newborn, stolen from a nurse’s phone. Vega smirked for the body cam: *“Tell Rocky the forest remembers. The baby’s next.”*

Rihanna was discharged at dusk under armored convoy. Paparazzi drones caught her clutching the infant to her chest, tears cutting tracks through Fenty foundation. Rocky followed, head down, flanked by bodyguards who once protected dictators.

The mansion in Barbados—where the couple planned their first family portrait—now bristles with panic rooms and motion sensors. Nannies undergo polygraphs. The bassinet is bulletproof glass.

Fame didn’t just crack; it hemorrhaged. The past didn’t stay buried—it clawed out of the dirt, dripping, and laid its claim on the crib. Rihanna’s empire of beauty and billions now guards a newborn against a ghost who refuses to die.

And somewhere in a Rikers isolation cell, Jasmine Vega sings lullabies to a doll made from hospital scrubs stained with Rihanna’s stolen blood.

The forest kept its secret.
Until the baby cried.