To My First Love, With Regret (Libenia) Chapter 52

At first, she’d been stunned, disgusted—she’d even felt an instinctive threat.

But a room was just a room. Though Harry—who had brought ruin to Ethan and death to Eve—would hardly have agreed. This was actually better. If from the depths of hell he saw the man who killed him taking over his things and screamed in rage—that wouldn’t be so bad.

Yes, it was better to give in. If this man was satisfied, drunk on the sense of victory over some room—that was fine too.

The hungrier the beast, the fiercer it became. If Eve first sated his thirst for revenge, he might stop tormenting her.

And then he might one day realize his revenge was already complete—and that anything beyond was just empty self-destruction—and leave on his own.

For Eve, this was the wisest choice.

And on the other hand, it was the right choice.

His anger at Harry was justified. And although Ethan—by personally dealing with Harry—had pushed all their futures off a cliff, Eve still believed it had been a forced choice.

When you thought about it, this tragedy was ultimately the Sherwoods’ original sin. So they had to atone for it. And she herself—who had been powerless at the time and couldn’t save Ethan and his family—had to as well.

Even though Ethan had left without ever looking back at her—the one who had already given up everything for him.

Because of this original sin, Eve had become a criminal—but at the same time, she was also an unjust victim.

So she hoped that this man named Ethan Fairchild—both victim and criminal—would soon collect all his debts and, please, disappear from her life again. This time—forever.

Even though he was currently settling in as if he planned to live here forever. Other officers had just a few bags—this man had brought a whole load of luggage. Making himself at home in someone else’s house, and even brazenly hammering nails into the walls.

“A little to the right.”

The moment her gaze fell on the painting his subordinates were hanging at Ethan’s direction, Eve’s breath caught.

Impossible.

This ashen canvas, painted entirely in achromatic tones, looked familiar to her.

No. It just looks similar from a distance.

Eve—forgetting even the most basic rule of propriety for a Lady—never entering a strange man’s bedroom—stepped inside as if possessed. The closer she got to the painting, the darker her vision grew.

A. Leclerc

She stared blankly at the signature left over a clump of paint in the corner of the canvas—when a shadow fell over her. Ethan, who had approached unnoticed, asked:

“Still painting?”

The question, striking like a knife in the back without warning, sent a chill down Eve’s spine.

“No.”

Just don’t let him ask because he recognized it as my painting.

“But your taste is still the same.”

He mistakenly thought Eve was admiring the painting because she liked it. Feeling the blade at her back withdraw, Eve carefully exhaled—having held her breath.

“She’s a genius artist I discovered. Currently unknown—but one day she’ll become great.”

Ethan called her a genius. Eve froze, not knowing what to feel.

“The problem is she rarely paints. I thought she was short on money and offered sponsorship—but she refused. She said she didn’t have time because she was raising a child. That it was a woman… Surprising.”

Eve was surprised too.

So you were my regular client and sponsor—the one who bought all my paintings as soon as they appeared?

The offer had come through an art dealer and Emily—and no name was given—so she’d never imagined. She’d actually never asked who bought her paintings—she hadn’t been curious.

She’d only been curious about why they’d chosen this painting.

Because Eve’s paintings were a grave for her feelings. For the past ten years, she’d poured onto the canvas the emotions that suffocated her if kept locked inside. So her paintings were a handkerchief for wiping tears and throwing away—blood spat out after sucking out poison.

“Do you know why I love this painting the most?”

On this painting—which Ethan had hung opposite the bed so he’d inevitably face it at the start and end of each day—the main subject was an emaciated lighthouse.

A lighthouse that would lose itself the moment the cliff—slowly eroded by harsh weather—collapsed.

A guide for lost souls, unable to save even itself, consumed by darkness. The light that should have illuminated the world merely flickered like a shaky distress signal. Beneath it, churning waves scattered foam like tears.

“Lonely and desperate. Were the Captain’s final moments like that? It also resembles the night I left this cliff. You could say it’s a headstone in memory of my former self.”

Ethan shifted his gaze from the painting to Eve—checking her reaction. She had the same face as someone who’d been insulted—like yesterday at the reception.

What audacity.

Of course, Ethan had no idea who was truly audacious. But his interpretation—that this painting depicted the night he left the cliff—was chillingly accurate.

Because this was the painting in which Eve had buried her feelings from the night Ethan abandoned her.

Could anything be more insulting than someone taking your grave and calling it their own?

“Ha…”

The moment she couldn’t suppress a scoff, the atmosphere beside her changed sharply. He clearly thought she was laughing at him or his grandfather. Eve decided to sacrifice her former self.

“What ‘great master.’ Judging by the chiaroscuro, this is a beginner with no basic skills. You wasted your money.”

So don’t you dare make my painting your trophy anymore.

This arrogant manner—demeaning not only her own taste but the genius artist he’d discovered—made Ethan’s face go cold.

“You see this as a realistic landscape? You’ve been stuck in the countryside too long—your taste has deteriorated. You’ve lost your eye for masterpieces.”

Ethan had no idea he was currently insulting the very genius artist himself.

It was no wonder. Her style had changed over time.

The paintings Eve had known were like fireworks erupting with hot passion. Bold colors, as if mocking all the world’s rules, recklessly crossed the canvas—but like fireworks adorning a summer night sky, they never exceeded the established order.

Now it was more chaos than painting—more like scars left on canvas. The paint wasn’t applied with a brush but roughly scraped off and carved with a palette knife.

It feels like I’m hanging naked on this man’s wall.

It’s like selling your diary and then seeing it in a museum.

She wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. Eve, turning away from the humiliating feeling, took out what she’d come to Harry’s former bedroom for.

“This is what I promised to return yesterday.”

The moment he opened the unfamiliar box, Ethan was flooded with burning humiliation and pain—as if struck in the face by an invisible fist.

Inside the box, like another gravestone, lay two rings neatly arranged. The engagement ring and wedding ring he’d given Eve.

She… kept them all this time?

He’d been sure they’d been thrown in the trash long ago. With what feelings had this woman kept the love of the man she’d abandoned—for ten years?

“I wanted to return them—I thought you’d want that too—but I had no way to contact you, so I kept them.”

Of course, he’d wanted them back. He couldn’t forgive himself—the fool who’d permanently lost his grandparents’ heirloom—and had spent countless sleepless nights dreaming of the miracle of their return. The miracle had finally arrived—but there was no joy. The humiliation at the moment of receiving them was much clearer than the relief.

Ethan’s gaze fell on the ring finger of Eve’s left hand. Eve was returning his rings—while on her finger was a ring from another man.

As if she’d found a better toy and no longer needed him.

What had marriage meant to Evelyn Sherwood? It didn’t seem like she loved Owen Callas. What kind of marriage was this—another whim, or just a venture for profit?

Like it had been with him.

“Well, I’ll be going.”

She acted as if paying respects to a departed love—but returning trampled symbols of love was hypocrisy, nothing more than a cowardly escape—an attempt to completely erase him and break free from the past.

That won’t happen.

Ethan called after the woman leaving with relief:

“Lady Evelyn, does that mean our secret rendezvous is rescheduled for tonight? Your room or mine?”

The moment Eve stopped, he demonstratively laughed loudly. But as soon as she disappeared—without even turning around—the smirk vanished from Ethan’s face.

Like a tired clown backstage, dropping the mask after the curtain briefly fell