How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue novel Chapter 753

He kept his gaze fixed on her. “But cheating? I never have, and I never will.”

Elodie stayed silent, just waiting to see what he’d say next.

Despite the headache still throbbing behind his eyes, Jarrod took her hand and placed it over his heart. “I’ve never let anyone else in here. Not before, not now. Elodie, I’ve spent nearly a decade—eight, nine years—on you alone.”

He sounded like a man with nothing left to lose, as if illness had stripped away all hesitation and left only the raw, honest truth.

“That ‘couple’s profile picture’ you were upset about—do you really not remember it at all?” His voice carried a note of helplessness. “You drew it yourself. Don’t you recognize your own work?”

Elodie’s brow unfurrowed, but the memory just wouldn’t come.

Jarrod pulled open the drawer by his bedside and took out a hand-drawn picture, neatly framed.

On the letter-sized paper was the full sketch of Jarrod’s profile image, and in the bottom right corner, in delicate handwriting, was her signature: Elodie.

It was unmistakably her handwriting.

Looking at it now, memories began to stir, distant and blurred but undeniable.

Back then, she loved stargazing with her telescope, and sometimes she’d sketch whatever inspired her—astronomy, the night sky, little fragments of her imagination. Most of the time, she forgot about them afterward; she’d drawn so many.

“Our grandfathers fought together in the war. That year, for my grandfather’s birthday, the Thorne family was among the guests. You were seventeen, shy, avoiding the crowds, tucked away in the garden with your sketchbook. I could tell you had no patience for those kinds of social gatherings. It was the third time we’d met, and you even yelled at me.”

He smiled wryly at the memory.

His grandfather, right in front of both boys, had joked with Elodie’s grandfather that their grandchildren weren’t far apart in age—maybe there was a bit of fate between them.

Jarrod hadn’t thought much of it then.

But when he wandered outside, he saw Elodie sitting alone, phone in hand, quietly chatting with a friend, completely unaware that he was watching. She looked so sweet and composed, but her words were sharp as a blade: “Matchmaking me with him? No way. He’s too old—I’m not interested in anyone that ancient.”

That one stung.

After all, Jarrod had been the center of attention—she’d seen at least five heiresses sidle over just to talk to him.

The idea of ever being involved with the Silverstein family was a fantasy for someone in her position—neither high nor low, just somewhere in between. She’d always prided herself on being clear-eyed about her place in the world.

But now, seeing that old sketch—something she’d carelessly tossed aside—preserved so carefully all these years, she found herself at a loss for words.

Even Ivan, who had once treated her so well, had never cherished something so trivial of hers.

When she’d asked Jarrod if he’d ever secretly liked her, she’d only meant it half-seriously—she never truly believed it.

But now?

He was showing her proof, right in front of her eyes.

Proof that, even through his darkest times, he’d never stopped thinking of her.