How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 617

That was enough to finally get under Elodie’s skin. “Mr. Silverstein, you’re not really about to bring up that whole ‘cruise incident’ with me, are you?”

Jarrod hadn’t said anything outright yet, but now that the wound was open, there was no use pretending nothing had happened. She figured she might as well take the initiative—it was better than waiting for him to strike first.

This time, Jarrod’s lips seemed to curve, though his expression remained unreadable.

Elodie looked at him calmly, her words slow but resolute, making her stance unmistakably clear. “We’re both adults. We’ve been married for three years. If you really want to keep score, here’s where I stand: it wouldn’t matter if it were you or anyone else—the result would be the same. I think you know I’m not the type to cling or make a scene, so you can relax. Whatever happened between us, it won’t affect what comes next.”

Whether or not Jarrod was worried about it, she intended to lay her cards on the table.

Jarrod’s lashes lifted, his eyes bottomless. “I guess I’m old-fashioned. Can’t say I’m as ‘modern’ as you.”

Elodie hadn’t expected him to latch onto that. Shouldn’t he be focused on her last sentence—that nothing would change the outcome?

But she didn’t bother to let his comment slide. Her reply was as cool and cutting as if she were talking to a stranger. “Mr. Silverstein, if your mind and your body were ever in agreement, then maybe you’d have the right to say that.”

Jarrod understood the implication. She was alluding to the physical side of his relationship with Sylvie. Clearly, she hadn’t listened to a word he’d said at dinner—or at least, she didn’t believe him. And her attitude toward the two of them going forward was as cold and hard as stone.

He tilted his head, regarding her with an almost casual air that still managed to come across as oddly serious. “So, have you been checking under my bed? Which one, exactly? Is there room for me to have a look myself?”

His tone was unhurried, even refined, but somehow the words carried an undercurrent of something else.

Elodie frowned, confused by his sudden shift—he rarely spoke like this, and she wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

Jarrod glanced up at the glaring ceiling light before speaking again. “Elodie, I’m not joking.”

She understood what he meant. But…

“It doesn’t matter,” Elodie said, raising her head again. “Whether it happened or not, the hurt was real. We should be grateful we didn’t keep dragging this out. Jarrod, I don’t care anymore. I think you know that.”