How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 338

Elodie’s voice was steady as ice—each word clear, clipped, and utterly detached. Even in anger, she never lost control; her calm, restrained demeanor was somehow more unsettling than outright fury.

Her gaze, frosted and unyielding, was fixed squarely on Jarrod.

She didn’t even bother directing her accusation at Sylvie and Selma. They weren’t worth the effort. Elodie refused to stoop to their level or get dragged into a scene with them.

She knew all too well how people measured their actions by the company they kept. If not for Jarrod’s silent indulgence, Selma wouldn’t have dared to act this way.

Why was that?

Because even when Jarrod said nothing, his mere presence emboldened them.

So Elodie went straight to the root of the problem.

Jarrod’s expression didn’t change. Underneath that surface calm was the habitual indifference of someone who’d spent years not caring.

He said nothing.

Sylvie stood up, lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes mocking. “Elodie, have you forgotten even the most basic manners?”

Coming here just to make a scene?

Selma’s face turned pale, her tone heavy with disapproval, as if Elodie was blowing things wildly out of proportion. “The cake was being shared with a lot of people. Maybe it was given to the wrong person by mistake. Is that really worth making such a fuss over?”

Elodie’s eyes glinted with cold amusement.

So now this was her fault?

Her lips curved in a frosty half-smile. “A mistake, was it? Then perhaps I should ‘accidentally’ let slip a word or two about Ms. Fielding’s real background?”

Selma’s face changed completely, a flash of cold sharpness crossing her features.

Sylvie’s expression hardened.

It was the first time either of them had seen Elodie abandon every pretense of civility.

Especially since Selma knew exactly what she was doing. She was well aware of the old hatred simmering between Elodie’s grandmother, her uncle, and herself—yet she still schemed to get close. Elodie would never allow someone like that anywhere near her loved ones.

Jarrod watched her for a moment before replying, his voice drawling, almost amused. “I don’t recall you ever being this angry with me before.”

Not even when Sylvie first showed up had Elodie spoken to him with such fury.

And yet, he sounded more bemused than offended, as if he were making a casual observation rather than commenting on her outburst.

Anyone listening might have thought they were just having an idle conversation, not following on the heels of Elodie telling his beloved to get out.

Elodie lifted her lashes, her eyes glacial. “I want an answer.”

She had no intention of entertaining his diversions.

As for her temperament—she’d never been one to show her claws. Raised to be a paragon of grace and composure, she’d always been discreet, self-possessed, quietly resilient. Except for her competitive streak in academics and career, it was rare for her to ever lose her poise like this.