How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 503

Selma’s face grew even paler. Her lips parted, but she could barely form a sound.

She was stunned—how could she have known Elodie had managed to recover the entire series of paintings, and in the process, cleared Winifred’s name from that old “plagiarism” scandal?

Even Sylvie hadn’t seen this coming.

But there was no time to catch her breath.

Patricia arched a brow. “I’ve confirmed with the School of Art at Fairview University: this piece, *Extinction*, was lost years ago and never recovered. Yet I purchased this very painting from a small gallery under Miss Selma’s name. So, Ms. Thorne, would you care to explain how a missing painting ended up in your hands?”

A ringing buzzed in Selma’s ears. She was frozen, unable to react.

After all these years, no one had known the painting was with her.

That little gallery, which she’d set up after returning home, was mostly used to store her own works. It wasn’t large—every so often, it opened to the public. Young people would pop in for photos, and occasionally, a few pieces would be put up for sale, supervised by a staff member.

*Extinction* had only just been moved there a few days ago, and—of all the rotten luck—Patricia had sniffed it out immediately.

Sylvie’s lips had gone white as she looked over at her now-silent mother.

Elodie understood exactly what Patricia was getting at. The way Selma had even acquired this painting… well, that spoke volumes.

Everyone in the room was stunned, struggling to process what they’d just heard.

After all, Selma had always been a star abroad—a celebrated oil painter, a respected professor at a prestigious art academy. Now, her carefully built reputation was crumbling, scandal after scandal tumbling into the light.

How could she ever show her face in the art world again?

Especially since Selma couldn’t offer a single defense. Her silence only convinced the onlookers further: she was guilty as sin.

Maurice was genuinely shocked now.

How could there be so much more beneath the surface?

He glanced at Sylvie, who was clearly in a daze, and then over at Jarrod, meaning to ask how they were going to handle this. But Jarrod was already looking his way, eyes cold and expression unreadable.

A chill ran down Maurice’s spine.

Finally, Jarrod moved. He stood and strode to the stage. “We need to verify the facts before proceeding. Ladies and gentlemen, the auction is suspended.”

He didn’t say anything more—offered neither defense nor condemnation.

But his word was law.