To My First Love, With Regret (Libenia) Chapter 28

His voice was in her ears, his tongue in her mouth. He poured himself into every inch of flesh he could reach, driving deeper and deeper until, finally, he gripped her hips and took her, pulling her flush against him. By then, he was already past reason.

But then the woman receiving his passion suddenly tensed and went still, holding her breath.

Did I hurt her? Did I lose myself so completely that I caused her pain?

He stopped immediately, but Eve remained arched and rigid. A moment later, her inner walls quivered faintly.

It was an orgasm.

He’d heard that a woman’s pleasure wasn’t as simple as a man’s—that it was a delicate, complex riddle. That penetration alone rarely led to release, and that some women went their whole lives without experiencing anything close to satisfaction, let alone ecstasy. He’d heard that this was why so many men ended up pathetic and abandoned.

So he certainly hadn’t expected Eve to climax from penetration alone. Not on their first time.

Maybe I’m not so bad after all?

In truth, he had no idea what he was doing. He’d simply moved inside her the way his body wanted. But whether it was natural talent or destiny shaping them for each other, he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he felt was joy.

Drunk on that triumph, Ethan let go completely, surrendering to the reins of his own desire. When he finally spilled inside his beloved, the sound that escaped his throat was less a groan and more a stifled sob.

I’m making love to you.

The long curse that began the moment I fell for you… it’s broken now. Because from this day forward, we’ll be together until death parts us.

Eve’s hand ran gently down his back, as if comforting the lonely boy who had once drowned in the depths of an impossible love.

Wrapped in her tenderness, Ethan filled her completely, dreaming of the day a child would take root in her womb.

And with that sense of release came a new feeling, rising like a tide: responsibility. For the first time, being responsible for someone felt like a gift—like a reward.

“I’ll protect you,” he murmured. “Both you and our child.”

They made love until their eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, but the lazy summer sun showed no signs of leaving. Dust motes drifted through the light slipping past the curtains—like scattered remnants of bliss—carrying the languid whispers of two lovers tangled together, slick with sweat.

The matching rings on their left hands caught the light as their fingers intertwined.

“We’re husband and wife.”

Ethan was certain: no dream he ever had, no matter how sweet, could surpass this moment.

Cradled in each other’s arms, lulled by the rhythm of their beating hearts, they finally sank into the most perfect silence—like a ship docking after a long and brutal voyage.

---

Sixth Morning in Montfleure

Eve woke gently to the chirping of tits, as she had every morning since arriving. Six days now. But when she opened her eyes, Ethan was nowhere in sight—even though her entire body still felt his presence.

The man who, on their first night, had barely dared to lay an arm across her, let alone tangle a leg with hers… lately, he seemed to have lost all sense of distance. The positions they fell asleep and woke up in were never the same, but one thing remained constant: he held her like a binding rope, refusing to let go.

Hot breath tickled her neck—slow, steady. He wasn’t awake yet.

She turned her head carefully. And there it was: the sight she had already come to love over these past few days.

If an art college entrance exam ever asked her to draw “peace,” Eve would paint Ethan’s sleeping face. And then she would fail.

Bold yet delicate lines. Rough-hewn, but harmonious. She traced every corner of that perfect face with the eye of an artist and the heart of a woman in love. Then the lashes resting against his cheeks fluttered.

The painting opened its eyes.

The moment his gaze met hers, those sleepy eyes curved into a languid smile.

“Good morning, Lady Fairchild.”

Does he really like calling me his wife that much?

Ethan called her “Lady Fairchild” at every opportunity. And Eve, who found it unbearably sweet and kissed him every time, was just as hopeless as he was.

He loved it just as much when she called him her husband in front of others.

Like the morning they went shopping for groceries.

“One chicken, please.”

“How many people? What’s it for?”

Ethan placed the order, but the shopkeeper kept directing all her questions and explanations at Eve. Soon enough, noticing that the young wife had clearly never cooked a day in her life, the woman changed tack.

“Can you butcher a chicken?”

“My husband can.”

The shopkeeper shook her head. What kind of man marries a woman who knows nothing, then kisses her and tells her she’s adorable?

Chicken in hand, they moved on to the vegetable stall. They needed potatoes, onions, the usual. But Eve had no interest in any of that. While Ethan picked out vegetables, she loaded their basket with fruit.

Grapes. Pears. Peaches. Only the ones that would look good in a still life background. She hadn’t realized fruit was so expensive. They were already over budget.

Buy one of each. Paint the rest from memory.

She was about to put some back when Ethan stopped her and struck up a conversation with the shopkeeper. She thought he was haggling. But no—he just chatted about nothing in particular. Then…

“Pay for the fruit. Take the vegetables for free.”

Ethan’s charm, it seemed, transcended language barriers.

Hand in hand, they headed to the bakery for breakfast bread. Eve spotted sandwiches in the display case and asked, “Is that the one you ate on our first date?”

“It’s a different one…”

But the obvious fact that she considered that night at the pub a date? That hit him like a punch to the chest.

“Actually… I wanted to try it.”

He’d assumed she didn’t touch it because it was low-class commoner food. This was unexpected.

“Why didn’t you, then?”

“You have to open your mouth wide to eat it.”

“Ah. Too vulgar for an aristocrat…”

“I was afraid I’d look ugly in your eyes.”

“What?..”

Ethan had to scrub his hands over his face—the Korean gesture for trying to suppress an unstoppable smile. It didn’t work.

Good god. Lady Evelyn wanted to look pretty for me.

How was he supposed to keep a straight face after that?

“You worried about something like that? Eve, you’d look beautiful even gnawing on a chicken leg with your bare hands.”

“I will never do that. Pretty or not.”

They still needed lunch. Eve bought a thick sandwich stacked with layers of thin-sliced ham and ate it sitting on a bench by the roadside where people passed by.

As a lady, it was the first time she’d eaten on the street with her mouth wide open. At first, she felt awkward. But no one looked at her with judgment.

No one looked at her at all.

The only person who couldn’t take his eyes off her was the man who wouldn’t have so much as frowned no matter how “vulgar” her actions became.

“It feels like I can breathe easier.”

Being born a Kentrell maiden meant performing the role of a perfect lady your entire life—suffocating under the weight of people’s stares, every move critiqued. Like an actress living someone else’s life on stage.

Only now, free from those eyes, did Eve feel like she was taking her first real breath. Like she was being reborn as a person.

Freedom is the air that love breathes. Without it, even the hottest passion suffocates.

Ethan would give his beloved any freedom she wanted. But watching her find that freedom in something as small as a sandwich… it hurt. Because she had everything others desired—and nothing she truly wanted for herself.

She was someone born to live freely.

Like her mother.

Remembering the late duchess, whose freedom had been crushed out of her, Ethan shared this small act of liberation with Eve and prayed silently:

Let my reckless gamble save you.

---

That night, Eve requested Lavinian chicken stew. The recipe came from the couple who owned the house—passed down through generations.

She stood at the cutting board, reading the notes Ethan had written down from the old woman’s instructions.

“Marinate the cut-up chicken, onions, and herbs in red wine… reduce the wine… brown the chicken in a pot…”

She was lost by the first line.

This is so complicated.

If she’d known it was this labor-intensive, she never would’ve said she wanted it.

“What should I do?” she asked Ethan, who was already taking the chicken out and laying it on the board.

He stared at the recipe for a long moment, thinking. Then he nodded toward the herb garden outside the window.

“Can you pick some thyme and bay leaves?”

That was the extent of Eve’s assigned work. She was grateful he was handling the butchering and opening the wine—things she’d never done and found difficult.

But peeling onions didn’t require special skills. She was annoyed that he didn’t even let her touch them, peeling them all himself.

“If you do everything yourself, how am I supposed to learn to cook?”

“Why do you need to learn to cook?”

“Well…”

“That’s what chefs are for.”

“…“

Eve was speechless.

He’s using my own childhood words against me. That’s low.

She’d been about seven. Becky and Ethan were playing house in the garden. Eve came over, watched, and asked to join.

“I’ll be the mom. Ethan’s the dad. Becky’s the child.”

Ethan had realized that aristocrats don’t play house like normal people the day he “came home from work” to find that arrangement waiting for him.