How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 751

Elodie was right—he had no intention of letting the Harcourt family off easy. In fact, if things were going to burn, he didn’t mind stoking the flames himself.

—

Elodie ended up coming to the townhouse after all.

As soon as she stepped inside, Cara hurried toward her, relief and worry written all over her face. Clearly, she’d been holding it in for some time. “Mrs. Silverstein, could you go check on Mr. Silverstein? He doesn’t want me to say anything to you, but honestly, he’s not been himself lately. Even when I stay overnight, I’ll sometimes get up in the middle of the night and still find him in the study, wide awake. No one can keep going like that. Yesterday, he came home and went straight to bed sick. He’s taken some medicine, but today he’s no better.”

She shook her head, still mystified by his stubbornness. “He won’t let me call you. I suggested you come to keep him company, and he refused. Said he’d be fine in a bit. But wouldn’t it do him more good to have you here?”

“I’ll go up and see him,” Elodie said quietly. She already had a feeling why Jarrod had fallen ill.

He’d been running himself ragged for weeks—taking on every worry, big and small, shouldering all the responsibilities, and then her illness on top of it all. She’d noticed before that he hadn’t really rested.

Cara brightened. “Wait just a second, ma’am. I made some soup. Could you take it up for him? He needs something warm if he’s going to get better.”

Elodie glanced up the staircase and nodded.

Cara fetched the bowl and walked with her.

As they passed the nursery, Elodie’s steps slowed despite herself.

The door was open.

She couldn’t help but notice the changes inside.

There were new toys in the crib, and baby supplies arranged neatly on a cabinet. A few tiny outfits, freshly unpacked—soft pinks and delicate patterns, the unmistakable style for a little girl. The room had taken on a distinctly feminine theme.

Elodie’s heart clenched.

Back when she’d first learned she was pregnant, she’d dreamed of moments like this—being able to pick out things for their child, to prepare for a future she could touch.

Now…

She pushed the door open.

It was dim inside; only a single bedside lamp glowed softly.

She walked over to the bed and saw him lying there, quiet and still.

His face was drawn, and even in sleep, his brow was furrowed. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temple.

On the nightstand, a framed photo of the two of them had appeared, making the room feel a little less empty, a little more like home.

Elodie set the bowl down gently and sat on the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment before softly touching his hand. “Jarrod?”

Before she could say anything more, his hand closed around hers. With a gentle tug, she toppled forward, catching herself on his chest.

He pulled her close, his arm draped around her shoulders, and spoke in a low, rough whisper right against her ear. “Thought I was dreaming.”