How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 171

Honk, honk—

Elodie looked up.

A sleek Bentley was parked by the curb, its hazards flashing. The chauffeur stepped out and opened the door for her with practiced deference.

That's when Elodie remembered—it was Valentine's Day.

She knew Jarrod was only putting on a show, performing for his grandmother's sake.

But tonight was also an opportunity. The matter of the ring—she could finally talk to Jarrod face to face.

"All right," she said quietly.

"I'll wait for you," Jarrod replied, his tone casual, almost indifferent.

Elodie slid into the backseat, not caring where they were headed. She closed her eyes, settling into the quiet, tuning out the city's bustling lights and crowds outside the window.

Eventually, the car pulled up to Blue Sky Table.

It was almost funny.

In all these years, Jarrod had never spent a single Valentine's Day with her. The only reason this year was different was because his grandmother had pulled strings, even after their divorce, forcing his hand.

The one thing she used to long for had finally come true—and it meant nothing to her now. In fact, it only seemed absurd.

Elodie knew Jarrod was just going through the motions. She followed the manager to the best table in the house, a spot with sweeping city views.

She looked up.

Jarrod was already seated, dressed in a charcoal-gray, custom-tailored suit. He'd draped the jacket over the back of his chair, the vest fitting perfectly across his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Even sitting there, doing nothing, he drew every eye in the room.

On the chair opposite him sat a massive bouquet of vibrant magenta roses.

Jarrod glanced her way and, as if remembering the script, asked, "Do you like the flowers?"

Elodie hesitated.

Jarrod had never given her flowers before. All those little gestures couples shared, he never did any of them. She used to hope he would.

But hope, ignored long enough, has a way of dying out.

"Thank you," she replied, settling into the chair across from him. She didn't say whether she liked them or not.

She remembered that first year after they married, how his grandmother worried something might go wrong and made sure someone kept an eye on them. Old habits die hard.

Jarrod met her eyes. "You don't have to be so formal."

Something about the way he said it was ambiguous, but Elodie didn't dwell on it.

They ate in near silence.

Anyone watching would think they were strangers sharing a table, not a couple on Valentine's Day.

Elodie picked at her food. She didn't have much appetite, but she did notice one thing: not a hint of onion in any of the dishes. Even the two entrées that usually called for a dusting of scallions or chives had been garnished with parsley instead.

She was allergic to onions. Dining out, she always had to remind the kitchen herself—almost no one ever remembered for her.

It made her pause.

Then again, it was probably another of his grandmother's instructions.

She ate a few more bites and set down her fork. Jarrod didn't seem hungry either; he looked up from his plate. "Grandma reserved a suite for you on the next floor."