To My First Love, With Regret - 120

When she stepped out of the Military Police headquarters, the streets of Richmond were already brimming with the lunchtime rush. Amidst the bustle, Eve alone was a withered flower.

She had just been promised everything she wanted: a new name, a life in a foreign land, and above all, the safety she so desperately craved. The plan had unfolded more perfectly than she could have hoped, yet she felt no sense of liberation.

Eve looked down at her hands, which held everything now. They looked empty, drained of all color. Like a child staring blankly at spilled milk, she was pierced by a chilling sense of ruin—the realization that she had done something that could never be undone. The cold seeped into her very bones.

Was it lingering attachment to Ethan Fairchild, or perhaps an old spark of affection? Or was it…

Eve decided not to dig any deeper. The die was cast; the wheel was in motion and could not be stopped.

After a dry farewell to the lawyer who had accompanied her, she hailed a taxi and headed toward her next destination. Crossing the gray city, she arrived at a refined restaurant.

—Eve.

As soon as she followed the waiter inside, her friend waved to greet her.

—Emily.

Emily Sutherland stood out distinctly among the patrons, whose appearances were as uniform as if they’d been stamped out by a cookie cutter. Even a prim suit couldn’t hide the free-spirited, artistic temperament she possessed.

—How have you been? Is school still keeping you busy?

Emily held a faculty position nearby at the Royal College of Art. Even during the year-end holidays when everyone else grew idle and giddy, Emily usually stayed cooped up in her studio, immersed in her work; it was Eve who had coaxed the artist out today.

—No matter how busy I am, I have to see my friend’s face. Anyway, what’s brought this on? You’re usually not the one to suggest lunch.

—I just had some business nearby and decided to stop by. I wanted to see you, too.

It wasn’t a lie, but it was only a half-truth. She didn’t confess until the meal was nearly over that she actually had something vital to tell her.

—Emily, I’m leaving the country soon.

The clatter of silver cutlery on the table came to an abrupt halt. Emily stared at Eve, her eyes full of questions.

—…Where are you going?

Naturally, the reason for her departure should have been the biggest question, but Emily didn’t ask. Wasn’t it common for the upper class to use their wealth and connections to abandon their homeland and flee in the middle of a war? In Emily’s eyes, Eve likely appeared as just another first-class passenger being the first to escape a sinking ship.

Eve didn’t bother trying to clear up the misunderstanding. It would resolve itself soon enough.

—I don’t know where I’m going yet.

—I see. When…?

—And even once it’s decided, I won’t be telling you.

Emily’s brow furrowed. She had believed they shared the most intimate secrets; the hurt of having her loyalty questioned was plain on her face. But this misunderstanding, too, would soon be cleared.

The restaurant was as noisy as a platform at Central Station, ensuring no one could overhear. Nevertheless, Eve leaned deep toward Emily and whispered in a low voice.

—It’s because of Ethan Fairchild.

—…What?

—He might come looking for you, pestering you for my whereabouts. So, you truly must know nothing. Keeping this a secret is all for your sake.

The more people who knew of her departure, the greater the risk of Ethan finding out. She had chosen to tell Emily first only because she was worried about her friend’s safety. Ethan already knew how close they were—close enough for Emily to have been a bridesmaid at Eve’s wedding to Owen Callas.

—I’ll apologize in advance. I’ve already taken steps to ensure you won’t be in danger.

In exchange for the evidence, the Director of Intelligence had promised that the state would strictly guarantee the safety of any acquaintances Ethan might try to harass.

An ordinary person would have turned pale at the warning that a notorious gang leader might come looking for them, but Emily was extraordinary. Instead of being frightened, she simply gave a shrug.

—It’s fine. If I don’t know anything, there’s nothing that man can do anyway. He can’t dig up information that doesn’t exist. So, keep it a total secret from me.

Emily’s laugh was refreshing enough to clear the tightness in Eve’s chest. But soon, Emily grew pensive, her playfulness vanishing.

—I see it now…. You’re running away to escape him.

Eve didn’t confirm it with words, but the bitter smile spreading across her face was answer enough.

—So, please, don’t tell anyone that I’m leaving.

—Of course.

Emily raised her glass, the red wine shimmering, and offered a toast.

—What should we wish for? To the downfall of Ethan Fairchild? Hmm, that feels more like a curse than a wish, so let’s skip that.

Emily swirled her glass, lost in thought.

—Then, to your safe escape? No. That isn’t enough.

The artist’s exacting gaze, which never chose a toast lightly, wandered through the air before suddenly snapping onto Eve. Emily spoke with the firm tone of a prophet delivering an oracle.

—May your lost days become a blessing.

That poignantly beautiful wish resonated heavily in the depths of Eve’s heart. Was there any phrase that could more accurately summarize her past ten years than ‘lost days’?

She hoped that those hellish times—when she had drifted like a shipwreck on a vast ocean, directionless and swept away by violent waves—would ultimately become her salvation.

Clink.

The crystal-clear sound of clinking glasses rippled across the table. Eve closed her eyes as if making a wish. She couldn’t bring herself to actually drink the wine filled with such a blessing; she merely brushed it against her lips. When she opened her eyes, Emily set her glass down and asked:

—That aside, what do you plan to do about your painting?

—I have to keep painting. Now that I’ll have some peace of mind, I plan to devote more time to it.

—That’s wonderful news.

Emily’s face brightened at Eve’s answer. Even amidst the sadness of losing her friend, it seemed the fact that Eve’s talent wouldn’t be squandered offered some consolation.

—I’m so glad. Oh, that reminds me….

Emily rummaged through her handbag as if she’d nearly forgotten. What she pulled out was a luxurious envelope that, at a glance, looked like something only the nobility would use.

—Mr. Sterling came by the studio this morning.

Sterling was the art dealer who brokered Eve’s work.

—He said an ardent fan of yours sent this.

A fan of mine.

Tick, tick.

The beating of her heart began to echo in her ears, mimicking the sound of a clock. Eve reluctantly accepted the letter as if she were being handed a time bomb. Her eyes fell upon the black ink pressed onto the smooth, ivory envelope.

｢A. A. Leclerc｣

Strokes so bold they felt arrogant, letters slanted just like their owner’s temperament, and that distinct, sharp finish. The handwriting that seared into her vision was agonizingly familiar.

—Maybe they’re offering another sponsorship or wanting to commission a piece. Didn’t you say you’re going to focus on your work now? Don’t turn it down; just take it. It’s a great opportunity.

Beside her, Emily chattered away excitedly as if it were her own success, but Eve heard nothing. It felt as though the script before her had come to life and was strangling her.

—Of course, no matter how much they sponsor, it’ll be pocket change to a Lady like you, but think about the reality of the art world. If you’re going to work without the shadow of your family name, you need at least one big-handed patron to make a name for—

—Emily.

—Yeah?

—If this person comes looking for me too, tell them you don’t know me.

—Why?

—Because it’s Ethan Fairchild.

In an instant, a chilling silence descended over the table. Emily, too, turned as pale as a ghost.

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—’They say that when coincidences pile up, it’s destiny.’ I’m sorry to say this, but whether it’s a good connection or a bad one, if it’s a fate ordained by God, I don’t think you can break it just by running away.

All the way back, Emily’s haunting insight clung to Eve’s ears like tinnitus. A fate that couldn’t be severed even by flight. Was there any curse more terrifying than that?

But she couldn’t blame her friend. She simply didn’t want to admit it—Eve herself already had a premonition that the stubborn snare of their connection would not let her go so easily.

According to the original plan, she was supposed to look around Emily’s studio and have tea, but they had to part early. The weight of the mysterious letter in her handbag dragged Eve’s mood to the floor.

—We’ve arrived.

The taxi pulled up at a manor in Richmond’s affluent district. It was the residence of Eve’s relatives—a smokescreen to hide the true purpose of her trip to the capital.

—I’ve decided to spend the New Year at my relative’s house.

Ethan, believing this excuse, had let Eve go without much suspicion.

Or so she had thought. Until his letter arrived.

The manor, which had been noisy with the grumbling of children just waking up when she left early this morning, was now as quiet as a chapel.

—My Lady, you’ve returned?

When she asked the butler who met her, he replied that Tony had gone out a short while ago with the grandchildren of the house. It was just as well. She was desperate for a moment alone.

Eve entered the guest bedroom and closed the door. Finally, she was perfectly alone. Only then did she pull out the time bomb she had buried deep in her handbag.