To My First Love, With Regret - 107

Ethan gritted his teeth until his jaw felt as if it might shatter, his gaze boring into the mysterious boy standing across from the grave, as if trying to unearth his secrets.

I wonder. Does this cuckoo chick, perched in someone else’s nest, have any idea who his real parents are?

Unable to endure the boredom, the child’s wandering eyes stopped on Ethan. Tony stuck out his tongue and made a ridiculous face. Ordinarily, Ethan would have played along.

But instead of crumbling into a smile, Ethan’s face only hardened further, becoming like a headstone. Taken aback by the coldness in his eyes, the boy curled his lips inward and looked sullen. He likely thought he was being scolded for playing around at a solemn funeral.

Kid, I’m sorry, but I can’t look at your face and laugh anymore.

Ethan hastily tilted his flask to wash away the bitterness in his mouth. Instead of numbing the pain, the harsh alcohol only reignited the futile, lingering regrets he had tried so hard to suppress.

Is there any chance Tony is my son?

That summer ten years ago when the child was conceived—if Eve had been seeing both him and Owen Kallas at the same time, wasn’t it possible that Ethan was the biological father?

—Ha….

This goddamn obsession.

The moment that pathetic, wretched hope began to sprout, Ethan had no choice but to trample it.

If he were mine, why would that woman raise him?

It made no sense to discard the father while keeping the child. The mere fact that she had carried him to term and raised him was proof enough that the boy wasn’t his.

Evelyn Sherwood, just how long have you been deceiving me?

Rage, finally boiling over, exploded through his grip. The steel flask crumpled like a sheet of paper under his brutal strength. Ethan violently hurled the unrecognizable hunk of metal into the pit at his feet.

Clang!

The flask struck the coffin lid with enough force to shatter it before bouncing off. But it was Ethan Fairchild, not the dead man, who truly felt the impact.

As if he had contracted a plague from the corpse, Ethan’s eyes were filled with the same bloodshot thirst for revenge that Owen Kallas had exhaled just before dying.

Damn it. Once my son is born, it’s the end for every last Sherwood. I’ll throw that filthy traitor and her bastard over the cliff together.

The mourners, who had been tossing roses or handfuls of dirt to honor the dead, froze at the sight of the flask flying like a desecration.

Boom!

Before the sound of the impact—more a declaration of war than a final farewell—could even fade.

Ruuuuumble.

As if answering that signal flare, the earth beneath them shook violently, as though it were a battlefield. A roar like the world collapsing surged from behind, turning the quiet cemetery into a chaotic scene as everyone’s gaze shifted toward the bellowing sea.

A corner of the sheer cliff crumbled into the ocean, as if the water had opened its maw to swallow the land whole.

As the pale clouds of limestone dust dispersed, all that remained were white, frothing bubbles, churning like a Great Beast.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

Eve returned to the estate as soon as the funeral concluded.

—Were you not too startled, My Lady?

The butler asked as he took her coat. There was no way he could have already heard of the minor commotion Ethan Fairchild had caused at the tail end of the service.

—The cliff in front of Kentrell Castle collapsed, unable to withstand the waves. Fortunately, it is far enough from the manor that there is no damage, but I will restrict access to the coastal walking path for the time being.

—Do so.

In truth, it no longer concerned her. Neither she nor Tony would ever wander that precarious precipice again.

Leave quickly. Before the ground you stand on gives way.

The collapsing cliff felt like a warning notice, signaling that her time here had run out.

Though the butler suggested she rest, Eve summoned him straight to her study. It was time to conclude the conversation they had begun on the day the joyous news of Owen Kallas’s death had arrived.

The day she received the casualty notice, Eve had informed the butler: she planned to seek refuge abroad with the Duke until the war ended. Of course, the plan would vanish into thin air the moment it reached Ethan Fairchild’s ears, so she had placed a strict order of silence upon the butler.

Since then, Eve had been finalizing her preparations, giving specific instructions on how the estate should be managed in her absence. Today, she had to bring up the agenda she had deferred until the very last moment—the headache that was Chantal, the nuisance she had hoped time would resolve, one way or another, through life or death.

—The Dowager… if she remains in this state until the day the Duke and I depart, have her moved to a hospital.

She couldn’t simply abandon her; doing so might lead to Eve being branded a murderer.

—Look into a suitable hospital in advance. The place where my father stayed would be fine.

It was at that convalescent hospital that her revenge had been possible without getting blood on her hands, thanks to the staff looking the other way for Ethan Fairchild. It would be advantageous to have her there, just in case.

—And… arrange things so that the moment it becomes legally permissible to cease life-sustaining treatment, you do so without delay.

—I understand. Is there anything else you require?

There was. The most important thing.

Eve stared at Redgrave, measuring him.

Is this something I can truly entrust to this loyal butler?

Throughout her hesitation, she rolled a dangerous question over the tip of her tongue.

‘Can you track down a criminal for me? A forgery expert skilled enough to craft a new identity for me that leaves no trace.’

Moving under her real identity was tantamount to suicide. It was only a matter of time before she was caught in Ethan Fairchild’s dragnet. Thus, a disguise was not a choice, but a necessity.

The bigger problem was that the issue wouldn’t be solved simply by the two of them wearing masks. The attendants and bodyguards helping them in exile would also be tracked; they needed disguises as well.

Hiring entirely new staff seemed like a simple fix. But on a perilous path where she was fleeing for her life, could she really entrust her safety and the child’s to strangers?

The people I can trust have long tails, and those without tails cannot be trusted. It was a difficult dilemma.

Ultimately, she needed a forger regardless.

The reason she hadn’t reached out until now was that forgery experts were, by definition, criminals living in the underworld. It wasn’t that she feared document forgery—not after soliciting two murders—it was the risk that word might leak to the King of the Underworld that the Lady of Kentrell was plotting an escape.

In fact, she had already consulted Shepherd, who was as well-versed in the mechanics of that world as any criminal. She had hoped for the contact info of a reliable forger, but all she received was a chilling warning:

—The moment he realizes you’ve fled abroad, Ethan Fairchild will hunt down every forger in the country.

Eve pressed her fingertips firmly against her throbbing temples. If a detective who balanced precariously on the line between legal and illegal couldn’t solve the problem, how could a butler who lived at the pinnacle of high society?

—…There is nothing for now. You may leave.

—Then please rest well.

The butler bowed and withdrew. Just as he stepped into the hallway and was about to close the door, an arrogant baritone pushed through the gap.

—Tell the Lady that I am here.

It was Ethan Fairchild.

Eve’s head tilted slightly as she leaned on her fingertips. She had been quite curious herself.

Why did that man rage at a mere corpse enough to hurl a flask at the coffin?

And now that the rival who held the means to usurp Kentrell is gone, what is his next move?

—I am sorry, but at this moment…

The loyal butler tried to block him, but Eve gave her calm permission.

—It’s alright. Let him in.

The door swung open, and Ethan Fairchild strode in as if he owned the place. He stared straight at Eve with eyes that were intensely defiant.

The gaze was so powerful it made her skin prickle, yet she couldn’t tell if it was a heat that would burn her to death or a chill that would freeze her heart. Either way, in excess, it was meant to harm.

She had already secretly increased her security detail in case he attempted a kidnapping or confinement. She was about to move to the desk where a call bell was located—to be ready for any eventuality—when the man, standing only a step away, caused an incident she hadn’t even considered.

—Miss Sherwood.

With his most arrogant face, he knelt before Eve in his most abject manner. The reason the memory of him kneeling before her in the past resurfaced was surely not because of any lingering affection for a lost love. It was because there is only one reason a man obsessed with revenge would bend his knee to his enemy.

—…Are you proposing to me right now?