How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 71

When Elodie arrived, she found Jarrod standing beneath the covered walkway of the nursing home, cigarette in hand. He looked tall and composed, an imposing figure with a chill about him that kept people at a distance.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her expression was anything but calm.

Jarrod, always calculating, never wasted words. He was threatening her with her uncle to force her hand—nothing more, nothing less.

She walked up to him. "Can we talk?"

Jarrod turned slowly, regarding her with a cool gaze. "Why are you so nervous?"

The question hit her like a slap.

Elodie knew times had changed; she couldn't afford to be defiant anymore. She softened her voice. "My mother dedicated her whole life to art. She and Selma always had their differences. No matter what, the gallery can't be sold. Can't you just let this go…?"

She was out of breath, probably from running.

Her words came out in shaky bursts.

Jarrod just looked at her, unmoved. "Her mother loved that place."

His tone made it clear—he wasn't going to give in.

He was willing to let the Thorne family be insulted, all to please Sylvie's mother?

She remembered all the times she'd pleaded for him to visit her uncle and grandmother. He'd barely ever agreed. Now, he'd come here of his own accord—but only for Sylvie.

What a cruel joke.

Elodie bit back a bitter laugh and kept her voice steady. "Jarrod, I know you always get what you want, but not this time. My grandmother can't stand Sylvie's mother. If she finds out Selma is the buyer, it will devastate her. Please… for the sake of what we once had, can you reconsider?"

She knew, deep down, that even if she refused, Jarrod had a thousand ways to get his way.

She couldn't risk it.

So she let her vulnerability show—something she'd never done in front of him before.

Jarrod studied her for a long moment, lost in thought.

He stubbed out his cigarette and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Fine. The gallery doesn't have to be sold."

Elodie stared at him, stunned by his unexpected mercy.

But then Jarrod asked, "Was the situation with Mr. Patrick your doing?"

He checked his watch. "Alright. That's all I needed."

He paused, then looked at her again. "Need a ride home?"

Elodie knew it was just good manners, nothing more. "No, thank you."

"Alright." Jarrod didn't hesitate to turn and walk away.

She watched his tall, elegant figure retreat, unable to guess what he was truly thinking.

Whatever tricks Jarrod had up his sleeve, one thing was certain—the gallery's price was steep, far beyond what Sylvie or her mother could afford. In the end, he'd be the one footing the bill for Sylvie.

For Sylvie, Jarrod was willing to give everything—his heart, his money, whatever she wanted.

All those years Elodie had been married to him, all she'd gotten was endless toil.

As for Selma, she was determined to get her hands on Elodie's mother's gallery. It was her way of reclaiming the self-respect she'd lost, of proving to the Thorne family that times had changed.

Emile called, asking if Jarrod had left.

Elodie realized Jarrod hadn't told her uncle about the divorce or tried to persuade him to sell the gallery. She breathed a sigh of relief. "He's gone. Get some rest, Uncle."