How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Chapter 584

Elodie truly couldn't fathom people like Sylvie.

Some people glide through life so easily, even after causing so much pain to others, and yet they can still show up at your door, utterly shameless, pretending to plead for forgiveness-while never once acknowledging what they've actually

done wrong.

Even when Sylvie put on her most humble act, Elodie could see right through it. It wasn't remorse, just desperation. She simply couldn't bear the consequences and was grasping at whatever she could.

Elodie's lack of mercy left Sylvie frozen, her expression stiff for a long moment.

All the resentment Sylvie had tried to bury started to bubble up again, but she swallowed it. Her lips trembled—she hated Elodie's cold composure, hated having to beg-but she softened her tone regardless. "I know you hate me. Do whatever you want, just... as long as you don't press charges, Elodie. Believe it or not, I didn't even know that code was yours. I just-"

Sylvie couldn't

a careless impulse? Or simply a desperate

never once stopped to consider what you've really done. Even now, you're still scheming, still refusing to admit fault. Years ago, Selma framed my mother, dragged her name through the mud, stole her honors, and ruined her graduation. She made sure my mother's fiancé left her, then swooped in to take her place. And if that wasn't enough, she rallied people to hurl abuse at my mom until she fell into depression, became terrified

time Elodie had

to destroy her, Elodie's mother might have become a brilliant woman-confident, radiant, dazzling. She wouldn't have been so emotionally vulnerable after her illness, so easily fooled by a fleeting show of kindness, and she never would've fallen into Malcom Harcourt's trap, stumbling into another disaster of a marriage. That's how life works-one wrong step, and every step after goes wrong. Sometimes, Elodie wished she'd never been born at all. Maybe then her mother could have lived

bragging about her latest awards, her art exhibits, attaching sweet, innocent voice recordings from Sylvie "Hi, Auntie, I hope you're well!"-and always closing with the same line: "It's such

tired of rubbing salt into

stopped a few years

even known about these emails until much later. She still couldn't

with Sylvie, she didn't hesitate for a second-she filed for