How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Chapter 543

"I just saw Ms. Fielding heading into Mr. Silverstein's suite..."

"Are you sure? Did you really see her?"

"As sure as I am standing here. She walked in clear as day-and Mr. Silverstein was already back in his room."

Elodie's limbs felt like lead, her head throbbing with each heartbeat. Still, she forced herself to focus, catching every word of their conversation.

But she had no energy to care about any of it.

That was their business, not hers.

She could barely hold herself together as it was.

Mustering what little strength she had left, Elodie made her way to her room. She glanced up at the brass-plated number on the door, double-checked it, then slipped inside and shut the door behind her. Half-blind in the darkness, she staggered across the plush carpet, fumbling her way to the bed.

She collapsed face-first onto the covers.

Downstairs, the party raged on.

Those who could still keep up were playing and drinking well into the night. Plenty of others had already given up, retiring to their rooms before midnight.

Watts had no interest in joining the games. He stood alone on the deck, leaning over the railing, a glass of whiskey warming his hand.

Before long, Patricia sauntered over, swirling her own drink. She flashed him a bright, teasing smile. "Still out here by yourself?”

Watts shot her a glance. "What of it?"

eyes glinting. "Aren't

just

6103. I just made things easier for you. Don't say I never did

frowned

her hand,

gaze back toward the table where Elodie had been sitting

her line

tense pause, his whole demeanor shifted,

with a bit of a kick. You know, the sort that loosens people up," Patricia said, utterly nonchalant. She didn't elaborate

that casual admission was enough. Watts' stare hardened. "Patricia, you need to know

for her

off, not even looking back, tearing up the

had to find

mischief. Only after a long while did she turn away and take a delicate sip of her

and women, a little

her name from across the room. Patricia's expression didn't change; she ran a finger along the rim of her glass, let

in endless

corridors, restless and uneasy, the party's echoes washing over everything, ebbing

l.ne

eyes open, the horizon outside her window blurred into a single line where sea met sky. Damp air pressed in from all sides. Maybe it was the unfamiliar setting, maybe the night's excess, but she couldn't shake the strange, uncomfortable

a sharp

muscle felt

her back, staring up at the ceiling light

was a

turned her

other half of