How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 175

Jarrod examined the package in his hands, his gaze catching on the shipping label—it had been sent out two months ago.

He turned the envelope over, absently tilting it, and heard something small rolling around inside. Apparently, there was more than just paperwork in there.

Jarrod's expression grew pensive. He considered calling Elodie.

Before he could reach for his phone, the office door burst open. Sylvie stormed in, eyes red and brimming with tears. "Jarrod, can you come with me to the hospital? My mother just collapsed…"

Jarrod's face hardened. The muscles in his hand tightened around the envelope. "Let's go."

Sylvie hurried out ahead of him.

He glanced down at the package again, then decided to simply take it with him as he headed downstairs.

Keith ran into them on his way back in. Spotting Jarrod and Sylvie heading out, Jarrod gave a curt order. "Bring the car around. We're going to the hospital."

Keith's eyes landed on the envelope in Jarrod's hand. It looked familiar.

"Yes, sir."

At the hospital, Sylvie rushed off toward the elevators, not sparing a second.

Jarrod watched her go, then turned to Keith. He handed over the envelope. "Take this, and everything else from my office cabinet. Send it all to the townhouse, and make sure Cara puts it in my study. I'll drop by tomorrow."

Keith was baffled. He couldn't fathom why Mr. Silverstein suddenly cared so much about these things, but he nodded obediently. "Understood, Mr. Silverstein."

Jarrod started for the stairwell, pulling out his phone as he went. Something on the screen made him pause briefly, his steps faltering. Then, expression unreadable, he slipped the phone away and continued upstairs.

_

Elodie had spent the night on the couch.

But, truth be told, she'd barely slept—drifting in and out of a restless haze, mind unsettled for reasons she couldn't name.

She had expected this, really. Alone in a silent house, not a whisper or footstep to break the solitude. Even if he hadn't taken that phone call, she doubted Jarrod would have bothered to keep up the charade all night. She'd seen it coming.

Trying to shake off the fog in her mind, Elodie checked her phone. No reply from Jarrod to her earlier message. She couldn't tell if he'd even read it.

She started to pull out her phone when another supervisor appeared, gently pulling the nurse aside. His expression was unreadable. "I'm sorry, but that's the situation. The next spot isn't for Mr. Emile. Please be patient and wait for further notice."

Elodie wasn't new to this kind of game. With her background in PR, she could smell a cover-up from a mile away.

This was a private hospital—money and influence could bend the rules, even for something as critical as a transplant. Someone had jumped the line.

Her face went pale, voice trembling. "Who's the other patient?"

"Sorry, that's confidential. I can't disclose that information."

A buzzing filled Elodie's ears. Her mind raced.

Her uncle had been waiting months for this liver. He'd followed every rule, waiting his turn—and now, at the last moment, something had gone wrong. Further delays would only worsen his condition, turning an already risky surgery into a gamble.

She couldn't just stand by and watch someone buy their way into her uncle's place.

Spinning on her heel, she moved to find a doctor. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Sylvie at the reception desk—accompanied by none other than Jarrod.