How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

The moment Ivan Harcourt walked out, Malcom felt as if he'd been plunged into an ice-cold lake.

He stood there, dazed, growing paler by the second.

He knew all too well what Ivan was capable of the man's ruthless methods at the company were legendary. Every shady deal Malcom had ever pulled, Ivan knew about. If Ivan decided to spill everything... there'd be no way out.

It wasn't just the law he had to worry about. Every business he'd ever screwed over would be out for blood.

His life-God, there were probably a dozen people eager to see him dead.

Ivan was going to destroy him. Not just ruin him—finish him off.

"Dad, what do we do now? What about Elodie Thorne? She can't just leave us out to dry, can she?" Reba Harcourt's teeth were chattering, her voice shaking as she stared after Ivan, eyes full of unwillingness and fear.

Malcom glanced down at his hand, the one Ivan had just crushed beneath his heel, and winced so hard his lips trembled. "It's over... Jarrod Silverstein was behind it all along. Ivan must have something nasty planned for us."

Those two-one in the shadows, one in the light-were both out for his throat.

Who could have guessed that the money he squeezed out of Jarrod that day would end with his own company in ruins? And then, with his assets scooped up for pennies on the dollar?

Malcom's eyes burned with terror and fury. "Go find your mother. Pack up now. We can't stay here another second!"

Jarrod's fever broke not long after.

Elodie was gone, of course. Still feeling a bit weak, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower.

When he finally made it downstairs, he found Cara bustling around the kitchen.noveldrama

A bowl of steaming hot noodles sat waiting on the dining table.

Jarrod's gaze instinctively swept the room, searching for any sign of Elodie.

Cara emerged, drying her hands. "Mr. Silverstein, I heard you get up, so I made you some noodles. Would you like to try them?"

He looked down at the bowl, breathing in the familiar aroma. It had been so long since he'd tasted anything like this.

"When did Elodie leave?" he asked, picking up a fork and taking a tentative bite.

Before Cara could answer, he smiled quietly, almost to himself. "She didn't make this, did she?"

Cara stared at him in disbelief. "You can tell? She walked me through every single step didn't skip a thing! By rights, it should taste exactly the same."

Jarrod had barely any appetite, but the familiar smell had tempted him. Now, realizing Elodie hadn't made it, he set the fork down. He couldn't force himself to eat any more.

"It tastes the same, but... it isn't," he said softly.

Only he knew what was missing.

He'd eaten countless bowls like this before. After late nights out, after parties or business dinners, Elodiez always made him a bowl. It was never just about the food; it was her way of showing she cared-and he never left a drop behind.

Cara couldn't figure out what was wrong, but seeing that Jarrod looked a bit better, she finally relaxed, "Mr.

Silverstein, should I let Mrs.

Ove

Silverstein know you're up?

She'd watched Jarrod work himself to exhaustion these past few weeks, running

himself ragged with worry. Even the strongest body eventually breaks.

She'd heard whispers about Elodie's illness from the old house, but as a housekeeper, it wasn't her place to ask questions.

But she'd seen Jarrod's pain firsthand-how he'd sometimes sit in the empty

nursery all night, lost in thought. It broke her heart to watch.

Jarrod nodded, thinking she was right. He got up, pulled out his phone, and was

about to call Elodie when he noticed a new notification.

It was an invitation from Maurice Nilsson and the others. He dismissed it immediately.

Then he saw it—a new message, sitting bold and unread at the top of his chats.

From Elodie.

She'd accepted his friend request.

He checked the timestamp.

Three hours ago.

Just after she'd left this house.