How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 87

Elodie's mind went completely blank for a long moment.

She could taste the faint bitterness of whiskey on his breath as his lips pressed against hers—Jarrod's kiss was rough, insistent, and she was powerless to resist. It wasn't until he tried to part her lips that she jolted back to herself, adrenaline surging.

She shoved him away, hard.

Scrambling off his lap, she tugged her rumpled nightdress back into place, her eyes suddenly cold. "Jarrod, you're drunk. I'm not Sylvie."

Jarrod blinked slowly, startled awake by her sudden resistance. He took in the disapproval on her face, and a reluctant clarity sharpened his dark gaze. His brow furrowed, as if this was the last outcome he'd expected—especially seeing Elodie's rigid posture.

He glanced around, as if only now registering his surroundings, then straightened and massaged his temples, his voice low and rough. "What time is it?"

Elodie's heart was still racing. She hadn't been touched like that in ages, and the intimacy left her uneasy—especially considering what they were to each other now. On top of that, the humiliation of being forced to swap dresses in front of everyone, and now being mistaken for Sylvie, left a bitter taste that crept up her throat.

"It's after ten," she replied.

"Alright. No need to return the call tonight. Tomorrow's fine."

Jarrod stood, his tall frame suddenly imposing, casting a long shadow across the room. He shot Elodie a fleeting glance but didn't mention what had just happened. "Get some rest."

With that, he grabbed his coat and strode out, his departure hurried, as if something urgent needed his attention.

Elodie guessed he must be mortified about confusing her with Sylvie—he'd probably wake up tomorrow, wracked with guilt for letting things get out of hand.

As for that slurred, "I missed you," she'd never seen Jarrod act so unguarded before. She supposed he was simply used to being inseparable from Sylvie, tangled up in that sort of clinging affection. With her, things had always been different. Even in their most intimate moments, Jarrod was never tender; he treated their time in bed like an obligation, never once holding her afterward.

She forced herself not to dwell on it.

Turning away, she went to bed.

The next morning, they had a set time for the return trip.

Not long after sunrise, her grandmother called. "Elodie, are you two up yet?"

Setting down her coffee mug, Elodie replied, "We are."

"When are you heading back to the city? Have you booked your tickets?" her grandmother inquired.

Elodie hesitated. She and Jarrod rarely traveled together anymore, and she wasn't sure how to answer. "Not… yet."

"Well, once you decide, let me know. I'll have someone bring you some nourishing soup for the journey."

"…Okay."