How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 886

The idea had come to her suddenly, but it left Esmeralda tossing and turning the entire night. Finding someone reliable—someone who wouldn’t make a mess of things—seemed nearly impossible.

She’d gone over every possibility again and again with no satisfying answer.

By the time she made it to the office, her skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Alexander Sterling drifted past her door, pausing just long enough to poke his head inside. “Rough night?” he remarked, surveying her with a half-grin.

“Your dark circles could win awards.”

Esmeralda sprawled across her chair, too tired even for sarcasm. “Yeah” she mumbled, “I was out with guys last night.”

Alexander’s brows shot up. He gave a low, disbelieving click of his tongue. “Since when do you tell tall tales?”

She gritted her teeth. Why did he always look down on her? But any retort died before it could reach her lips. Frankly, it wasn’t just Alexander. Everyone seemed convinced she was hopelessly infatuated with Fleming. Maybe that was why her father still refused to consider calling off the engagement.

Alexander must have sensed something was really wrong this time. He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him; all traces of jest vanished. Normally, Esmeralda was a bundle of energy, but now she sat there as if her batteries had been pulled out. Her eyes had lost their familiar spark.

Thinking she might still be unwell, Alexander walked up and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, checking her temperature. He frowned deeply, concern flickering in his eyes. “You’re not feverish anymore, so why do you look so awful?”

Esmeralda threw her head back, face drained of color, and offered him a bleak, humorless smile. “Alex,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “do you think there’s any actual chance I’ll get to cancel this wedding?”

Alexander’s gaze sharpened; his usual levity vanished. He looked right at her. “You’re serious?” he asked.

Whatever hope she’d clung to wilted. “Is it just naïve?” she said quietly, looking at the floor.

Alexander fell silent, piecing together the shape of her despair. He knew Esmeralda better than anyone. If she raised something twice, then she’d made up her mind. He stood by her side, not moving, his palm still lightly on her forehead, lost in thought.

She glanced up at him, searching his face. “Alex? What’s going through that head of yours?”

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