How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 499

The moment those words left his lips, Elodie caught sight of someone approaching from the side.

Sylvie still stood by Jarrod’s side. Hearing the comment, she didn’t seem flustered; instead, she glanced at Jarrod with a hint of resignation in her eyes.

Maurice came over, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean? Mr. Mercer’s chasing after you? Wants to marry you?”

He shot Jarrod a look. “Looks like Sylvie’s got some stiff competition, huh?”

There it was—the rivalry was out in the open. Someone else was openly vying for Sylvie’s hand.

If any ordinary man were in Jarrod’s shoes, he’d probably be feeling the pressure right about now, wanting to claim Sylvie as his own before it was too late.

Sylvie didn’t answer, which, in itself, was an answer.

The moment Grady caught sight of Jarrod, his expression stiffened, but he kept silent, choosing not to explain himself.

Elodie, quick on her feet, pulled Esmeralda behind her. Her gaze toward Jarrod was icy, guarded.

After all, Esmeralda’s earlier description of Sylvie hadn’t exactly been flattering. Elodie wasn’t sure if Jarrod had overheard.

And besides, Jarrod had bought the painting again just to hide it away, going out of his way to protect Sylvie and her mother. That alone left Elodie with little reason to show him any warmth.

Jarrod merely shot Elodie a sidelong glance, clearly noting her defensive posture.

“The event’s starting. Let’s go,” he said flatly, making no effort to argue or even acknowledge Grady. He simply turned his head and spoke quietly to Sylvie.

Sylvie met his gaze, thinking: Jarrod knows her heart already belongs to him—that’s why he never feels the need to clarify anything.

But letting slip, in front of Jarrod, that Grady had feelings for her? Maybe that was for the best.

As Maurice had said, men are natural competitors; they’re wired to want what others do. Jarrod, seeing how many people are interested in her, might finally start to reconsider his own intentions. Maybe inviting Grady today wasn’t such a bad move after all.

They passed each other in the crowd.

Grady watched Sylvie’s retreating figure for a moment, then turned to Elodie. “If you hadn’t come today, none of this would’ve happened,” he said coldly, then strode off.

Esmeralda rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn’t faint. “I’m going home after this. No way are my parents going to let him get away with this nonsense!”

Elodie, not forgetting their earlier plan, calmed her down. “Let’s get what we came for. The show’s about to start.”

So, she didn’t care if standing up now might cost her the reputation she’d only just started to rebuild.

She watched as Selma, radiant and resplendent, took her seat for the interview. Jarrod sat in the audience, Sylvie beside him, clearly sharing in the pride.

Elodie’s expression only grew colder.

Just then, Esmeralda returned, dragging a small suitcase behind her.

“It’s all here,” she whispered to Elodie.

On stage, someone from the audience asked, “Your early work was so unique, but your recent style seems different. Was there any particular reason for the change?”

Selma didn’t miss a beat. “Every stage brings new understanding. I’d say I’ve matured. If you really look, you’ll see my recent work has more depth and subtlety than ever before.”

Elodie knew exactly what that meant—a veiled dig at her mother’s art.

She pulled out one of the original sketches, ready to speak up.

But before she could open her mouth, a cool, striking voice sounded from behind her. “Am I late?”