How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 506

Selma looked pale, her face drained of color, but her expression remained dark and troubled.

Sylvie wasn’t faring much better.

The day’s events had spiraled so far out of control that she genuinely didn’t know how to clean up the mess.

“I just don’t get it. How did everything fall apart so suddenly…?”

Selma drew a shaky breath, her eyes rimmed red with frustration.

The reputation and standing she’d spent years building had crumbled in a single afternoon, and she simply couldn’t accept it.

Elodie had shown up—not to support them, but to cause a scene.

And even the painting they’d gifted Patricia as a gesture of goodwill had turned into a knife pointed at their backs.

“What happened with that painting?” Sylvie’s voice was colder than usual, the unfamiliar edge betraying her own turmoil. Maybe if she sounded detached, she could keep her emotions in check.

Selma squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve always kept ‘Extinction’ close to me. Even you didn’t know I had it. A while ago, I decided to put it away in the gallery, locked up and out of sight, since no one knew about it. But… somehow, Beverly ended up sorting through it.”

She’d kept ‘Extinction’ in its own locked room.

She’d never even told Beverly to go near that door.

So how had Patricia just happened to stumble in there?

Why, of all days, had this happened the one time she’d let her guard down?

Sylvie pressed her lips together, glancing at Selma. “Why did you insist on keeping that painting? If you’d just gotten rid of it back then—”

Selma’s face changed instantly, her eyes flashing with something sharp. “Because I had to prove I was better than Winifred!”

Years ago, Winifred had outshone her with ‘Dwelling’ and ‘Extinction’. Selma’s scholarship dreams had evaporated, and she’d never managed to catch up to Winifred—the golden girl who had every advantage from birth.

If they’d started from the same place, maybe things would’ve been different.

Sylvie stared at her mother, sudden understanding dawning.

The painting was her demon, her obsession.

She’d kept it even though it was dangerous, unable to let go of the injustice of her loss.

Faust spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’ve heard some rumors about your upcoming exhibition, Miss Selma. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

Selma froze for a moment. “Mr. Faust, there’s been a misunderstanding. I hope you’ll give me some time to sort this out—”

But Faust cut her off with a dry chuckle. “I’m sorry, but I have my own contacts. I already know exactly what happened. We just signed a contract, and my institution has already paid you half a million as a deposit. But under these circumstances, no reputable gallery will work with you. The risk is simply too great. So, I’m just calling to inform you that we’ll need the deposit returned—and you’ll also be responsible for the penalty outlined in our contract.”

Selma was stunned.

“What are you saying? The situation isn’t even settled yet—don’t you think this is a little hasty?”

Faust didn’t hesitate. “Miss Selma, you created this problem. My institution shouldn’t have to bear the consequences alongside you. We don’t work with disgraced artists. I can give you a one-week extension on the penalty, but after that, you’ll be responsible for any further consequences.”

He hung up without another word—a simple notification, nothing more.

Sylvie’s fists clenched, her chest tight with indignation.

How laughable people could be. When Jarrod was around, everyone was all smiles. The moment trouble hit, they were the first to kick you when you were down.

Selma’s lips trembled, barely restraining her anger. “What’s the penalty specified in the contract?”