How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 577

The man’s features were cool and understated. Sensing her gaze, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Would you like some soup?” he asked quietly.

This little display of “public affection” left Elodie’s expression unchanged. She simply replied, “No, thank you.”

Her eyes drifted out the window, uninterested.

It seemed as though no one at the table gave Sylvie’s arrival much thought.

Elodie couldn’t read anything from Jarrod’s face, either.

After the meal, they didn’t linger.

The elderly woman didn’t notice anything unusual between Elodie and Jarrod; she fussed over them with a string of reminders before they finally made their way to the car.

When Octavia stepped outside, she instinctively glanced toward the front door. In the end, she simply frowned and hurried into the car, determined to avoid unnecessary trouble.

Jarrod stepped aside to take a business call.

Only Lucinda paused.

She turned to Elodie. “The past is the past, but I still want to offer you some advice. Since you’ve chosen to marry Jarrod, whatever your background, you are his wife. You never spoke up about the past, so I hope you won’t hold it against us now.”

She wondered if Elodie might be resentful.

If Elodie—now the center of public attention, her status elevated—decided on a whim to make a scene or even divorce Jarrod, how would the outside world see the Silverstein family?

After all, it hadn’t been long since the scandal with Sylvie was all over the news.

From Lucinda’s perspective, Elodie was now emboldened—fully capable of “making trouble.”

Lucinda’s tone softened a little. “Of course, I know you won’t do that. After all, you were the one who pulled strings to make this marriage happen.”

Elodie loved Jarrod so deeply she lost herself. Lucinda was certain of that. Even now, with Elodie’s newfound confidence, she doubted the woman could truly stand up for herself in matters of the heart.

Divorce? Elodie wouldn’t dare. Nor could she bear it.

Elodie hadn’t expected Lucinda to speak so bluntly.

But—she saw right through it.

Lucinda wouldn’t have bothered with this conversation unless she cared, or perhaps even felt threatened. In the past, the ever-dignified, aloof Mrs. Silverstein would never have given her the time of day.

Jarrod ignored her protest. As she stepped outside, he strode over and draped his coat over her shoulders. “It’s chilly tonight. Wear this.”

Elodie was caught off guard, her brows knitting instinctively.

Before she could say anything, she felt a cold, lingering stare.

She turned—and saw Sylvie, who still hadn’t left.

Sylvie was drenched, her slender figure outlined by her soaking clothes, the lace of her bra faintly visible beneath the fabric.

She never expected it.

Elodie—here, of all places!

Sylvie had waited in the rain nearly three hours, only to see Elodie walk out of the house.

Jarrod was there, tenderly wrapping Elodie in his coat, shielding her from the storm as if not a single drop should touch her.

That kind of care—so meticulous, so effortless—made Sylvie’s face darken with bitterness. Her fingers curled tightly into her palm, nails digging into her skin.