How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 882

The delivery man paused at the door. “Miss Esmeralda?”

Esmeralda nodded.

“It’s for you, then.” He handed over the insulated bag and hurried off without another word.

Esmeralda stepped back inside, curiosity furrowing her brow. She opened the bag to find a care package—comfort food and a warm tea, the kind meant to soothe a body under the weather.

Her mind immediately went to Fleming. He knew about her cycle; it seemed like the sort of considerate thing he might do. She was about to frown, but her phone buzzed in her hand.

It was a message—Alexander.

[Eat it, and I won’t dock your pay.]

Staring at the text, Esmeralda could practically see the deadpan look on Alexander’s face, that razor-sharp tongue hiding beneath a stoic mask. She couldn’t believe he’d picked up that she wasn’t feeling well. The surprise brought the faintest smile to her lips.

She was about to type out a simple “thank you,” fingers hovering over the keyboard, but they froze midair. Fleming’s warning echoed in her mind—Alexander’s intentions aren’t so innocent.

A sudden chill prickled up her spine. She hesitated, then typed, half-joking, half-testing the waters: [Wow, don’t tell me you’re actually into me?]

Alexander’s reply came back instantly: [?]

Just a single, cold, indifferent question mark. Somehow, Esmeralda felt more insulted than if he’d spat out a curse.

Letting herself relax, she texted back: [Forget it. My cat typed that.]

Alexander: [You’re nuts.]

Esmeralda refused to let her mind spiral. She took a deep breath, shoved all thoughts of Fleming out of her head, and tucked into the comfort meal Alexander had ordered for her. It helped. She let herself enjoy it.

But Fleming had told her to wait; he said he’d come by.

Evening rolled in, and still, he didn’t arrive.

Which, truthfully, was no surprise. In the past, whenever Lucy called, Fleming would always drop everything, swearing he’d be back soon—but he never returned. She’d twisted herself in knots, inventing excuses for him, insisting he must have been delayed by something important.

But now she saw things clearly. If certain people didn’t want Fleming to leave, there was simply no way. And honestly, it didn’t matter anymore. She had already decided—she wasn’t going to marry him.

None of it was important. Nothing was.

The next morning, Esmeralda went back to her family home, the Mercer estate. The nanny had mentioned she’d left her laptop there, and she needed it for work.

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