How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Fleming's frown deepened. "Alright, you two handle it for now."

He hung up and looked up, meeting Esmeralda's stiff, uncertain expression.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he watched her for a few seconds. "Sorry, something urgent just came up. I've already reserved our table. You can call your friend to keep you company."

Esmeralda hardly had a moment to process this.

Fleming had already snapped his seatbelt into place, pressed the gas, and sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him.

She stared after his car for a long moment.

Finally, she blinked, shrugged her shoulders as if to reassure herself, and muttered, "Alright then."

Left alone, Esmeralda glanced around, feeling a little lost.

Her stomach growled. She thought, Well, I'm here already-why make things harder for myself?

With a sigh, she walked inside, found their table, and ordered a few dishes.

The food looked appetizing enough, but every bite tasted bland, as if she were chewing wax.

Her posture, so straight before, suddenly slumped. With a piece of foie gras stuffed in her cheek, she sat there, looking somewhat forlorn.

herself missing

had

embarrassment and an undefinable sense of grievance

it, maybe she was just being petty. After all, they were

then forced herself to chew

fine, she told herself. Sooner or later, she'd be

to get worked

Elodie straight back to their apartment

a little worried about

she frowned at him. "Shouldn't you be resting for a few

hadn't even fully recovered and was

his coat. The faint outline of bandages was

shape than you

momentarily at a

worried-she just thought he was terrible at looking after

this hour, Cara was off work. The house was empty except for the two

him into the kitchen as he poured himself a glass of water. She watched him tilt his head back, his Adam's apple moving

abruptly,

supposedly

his gaze to meet hers, setting the glass

was far more complicated than he let on.