How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 774

Fleming Mercer noticed someone watching him as he walked past. When he glanced up and saw Esmeralda, he stopped in his tracks.

His expression barely flickered; if anything, he looked cold, almost severe.

"What are you doing here?"

Esmeralda could tell, even from the way he spoke, that there wasn't much genuine concern behind the question. Even though she was in the hospital because she’d been ill, his care was always perfunctory—nothing more than required by courtesy.

She felt a little tense facing Fleming, pressing her lips together before she replied, "My friend just had surgery."

"As long as you’re alright," he said, giving a brief nod and getting ready to leave.

But as he turned, Esmeralda caught sight of something draped over his arm—a pale gray knit cardigan, unmistakably feminine.

She stared at it for a moment before asking, "Lucy’s sick again?"

That "again" made Fleming frown, displeased, but he didn’t argue. "Yeah," he answered flatly.

He clearly had no intention of explaining further.

A strange awkwardness settled between them, but then, that was always how it was with Fleming. They’d known each other for more than a decade. Ever since she could remember, it had always been understood that she and Fleming were promised to each other—the Mercers from Eldermere and the Mercers from Brightshore, two old families with close ties and the same last name. The arrangement was natural, even expected.

She’d been raised on that idea. It was a certainty in her life, something she never questioned: one day, she would become Fleming’s wife. Over the years, that certainty bred a subtle connection, a flutter of nerves whenever she looked at him. Her infatuation seemed inevitable, and before she knew it, years had slipped by.

But Fleming hardly ever returned to London, and even when he did, he rarely paid her much attention. She’d learned to amuse herself, carrying on with a carefree bravado, but deep down, she harbored feelings for a man who seemed forever distant.

Now, at last, their wedding date was approaching. Fleming had finally been transferred back.

Maybe, she thought, this could be a good beginning.

"So, um—do you remember the date for our wedding at the end of the year?" Her fingers fidgeted at her earlobe, her voice full of hesitant hope.

This time, Fleming actually stopped and looked at her for a moment. "Let’s talk about it another time. I’ve got something urgent right now."

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