How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 898

Adrian slammed on the gas.

A pale-faced Fleming bolted out of the car and sprinted upstairs.

It was a high-end luxury complex where the elevators required facial recognition or a concierge escort.

Since his face was registered in Esmeralda's system, he made it up effortlessly.

He arrived at her floor.

But Esmeralda wasn't home.

She hadn't come back.

Fleming tried calling her over and over.

The result was the same.

Neither his texts nor his calls were going through.

Defeated, he went back downstairs and borrowed Adrian's phone, hoping a different number would work.

It rang, and to his immense relief, someone answered.

A woman's voice came through, perfectly calm. "Who is this?"

Fleming let out a sharp breath.

Just as he opened his mouth to speak.

A man's voice drifted through the receiver. "Honey, just bring your luggage over for now. My place is huge; you can decorate it however you want."

Maybe it was just his imagination.

But Fleming could hear a deliberate edge in the man's tone.

That single word—"Honey"—rang with deafening clarity.

Fleming's breathing stopped completely.

Esmeralda didn't say another word, likely guessing who was on the line, and hung up.

No explanation, no hesitation.

Forcing himself to stay lucid, Fleming got back into the car and quickly pulled up Alexander Sterling's address.

It was a villa in a high-end neighborhood.

Ironically, it was incredibly close to Esmeralda's apartment—just a street away.

Close enough that they could have bumped into each other during a casual evening walk.

When they arrived, the security guards at the gate refused them entry.

Completely unhinged, Fleming pushed back, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "My wife is in there! Get out of my way!"

Unable to handle the erratic man, the guards finally asked for the exact house number.

They called Alexander's residence to confirm.

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