I’ve Decided to Let You Go - Chapter 44

“It’s done. After letting it dry in a cool place for a few days, it should be ready to check.”

In the end, Natasha let herself hope for too much.

She had used less black and mixed in a little yellow.

The change was so small that only she would notice. She figured that would be harmless enough.

“I just wanted it to resemble me.”

She had hoped the man she loved might share something with her.

Even if they were different in every other way, she wished their eyes—just their eyes—could be the one thing they had in common.

But maybe that wish had been too much.

The portrait, once praised by everyone, was taken down not long after it was displayed. No one saw it again after it was removed from the main hallway.

She overheard the reason through the quiet gossip of the maids.

“Why did they take down the portrait?”

“Oh, they said the eyes were wrong.”

“The eyes?”

“Yes! The Duke said the color was disturbing. He ordered it removed. Even when others tried to convince him to just fix the color, he refused.”

She had only added a little yellow and used a bit less black. She just wanted to show her own eye color in the painting.

Had that really upset him?

Feeling heavy, Natasha wandered the halls aimlessly. Everywhere she went, people were still talking about the portrait.

Even the steward. Even the Duke.

“Did you really have to remove it? It took half a day to complete.”

“I hated her eyes. They were awful. Absolutely awful.”

Hearing their voices through the door, Natasha nearly collapsed.

Sieghart had known.

He knew the painter was Natasha.

And he realized she had poured her feelings into that portrait.

She sank silently to the floor. A memory she didn’t want came rushing back to her.

“Your Grace, someday I’d like to show you, my eyes.”

“Your eyes?”

“Yes. They’re red, like yours. A little brighter, but still red.”

“I look forward to seeing them. If they’re like mine, they must be beautiful.”

That had been a lie too.

With small, harmless-sounding words, he had trampled on her love.

“I told myself I wouldn’t think about the past.”

Snapping out of the memory, Natasha stood up, frustrated.

She had let her guard down over the past few days. The promise she’d held onto for so long had started to fall apart.

“This is pointless.”

Overwhelmed by her feelings, she acted on impulse. She grabbed the sketch of Sieghart’s face and crushed it in her hands, throwing it to the floor.

Thud. Roll.

The paper rolled across the floor and came to a stop.

She looked toward the sound—and froze.

Shiny, polished shoes. And above them, the reflection of a familiar face.

“Your Grace… what are you doing here?”

It was Sieghart Aschart—completely unexpected.

Since their argument, he had never stepped into her personal space. What made him suddenly show up in her study?

“Don’t tell me you just walked in without permission?”

“For the record, I knocked at least five times. I thought that was enough for basic courtesy.”

“I didn’t hear anything. Still, isn’t it proper to wait for a response before entering?”

“You’re right. I apologize. I thought you might be hurt. I was worried, and I came in without thinking.”

Why was it that Sieghart in this life apologized so easily? He made it sound like a passing greeting. Natasha didn’t know how to respond.

“…So, what brings you here?”

“I think we should talk. The banquet is coming up, and as husband and wife, we need to prepare.”

“That’s something we can discuss during dinner, isn’t it? Wait—put that paper down!”

Her calm tone suddenly cracked at the end. She shouted in panic, but the urgency in her voice came too late.

Even if she rushed to stop him, she couldn’t block what he saw.

Sieghart had already looked down at the crumpled sketch. His eyebrows rose slightly as he stared at it. Then, without a word, he slipped the drawing into the pocket of his jacket.

Sieghart finding her sketch was already embarrassing enough—but to have him take it?
Natasha screamed inside, mortified.

“Please give it back.”

“The one who threw it away doesn’t have the right to ask for it.”

Honestly, she wanted to walk up, snatch the paper from his hands, and tear it to shreds.

But she wasn’t sure he’d hand it over so easily. And in a situation where the outcome was unclear, there was no point in humiliating herself further.

“I didn’t exactly throw it away… Never mind. Let’s talk during dinner. Please leave now.”

Yes, he’d already seen it. There was no point in fighting over what was already in his hands. With a wave of her hand, she signaled she was done with the matter.

Sieghart, suddenly treated like a burden, raised one thick eyebrow—but he didn’t look offended. Instead, he kept his expression calm and composed.

“That puts me in a difficult spot. I came here hoping to spend time with you.”

“…I’m busy. Aren’t you? You were sick for days. Surely your work has piled up.”

“I knew I’d fall ill, so I handled everything in advance.”

And just like that, Natasha was reminded again.

Talking with someone who didn’t listen only burned time and energy.

“Fine. Do what you want. But I still have plenty of work to do. So if you were hoping for a quiet tea time together at the table—”

“You can finish your work. I’ll handle mine here.”

What work could he possibly have to do in here?

Natasha didn’t bother to ask. Instead, she returned to her desk. Sieghart sat quietly on the couch and pulled the paper from his pocket.

He checked the ink in the fountain pen he carried in his chest pocket. It looked like he planned to write something on the back.

Natasha turned her eyes away, annoyed. She focused on finishing her design sketch. That was her priority.

For a while, the only sound was the soft rustle of pencil on paper—on both sides of the room.

“You know my face better than I thought.”

Of course, he broke the silence.

Natasha’s hand froze for just a moment.

How could she not know? Her hands remembered everything from their past life, almost as if it had never ended.

“I thought you didn’t care about me.”

When she didn’t respond, he continued—like he was trying to provoke a reaction. Fearing she might be misunderstood if she stayed silent, she replied flatly.

“I tend to remember people I don’t care about very well. Does that answer your question?”

“Ah. I see.”

She had clearly meant to shut him down, but he responded anyway.

Just as she was about to tell him to stop interrupting her work, Sieghart—now standing closer to her desk—spoke slowly.

“I assumed it was the kind of face you remember when you think about it dozens of times a day. When you draw it over and over again, until it’s burned into your mind.”

Then, without another word, he placed the paper back down on her desk.

She looked—and saw his eyes meeting hers in the sketch she had drawn.

Annoyed, she quickly averted her gaze. But when she looked up again, he was gone.

“What a strange man,” Natasha muttered to herself.

The man in the drawing seemed to be smiling faintly now, and for some reason, she hated that.

She grabbed the paper, ready to crumple it and toss it in the trash—but paused.

The back of the sheet caught her attention.

When she turned it over out of simple curiosity, she found a portrait of herself.

It wasn’t as technically perfect as the sketch she had drawn of him, but it was still good—elegant and emotionally strong.

She couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
She just sat there, staring at it, forgetting all about her work.

“Red…”

Her finger brushed across one part of the drawing—her eye.

“Dark red… like blood.”

The iris was filled with deep, bold red—a shade mixed with black and blue. The exact color she hadn’t been able to mix on her own palette.

In the end, she designed the embroidery with a bright red rose that resembled his eyes.
It was a common flower, so it might not seem original—but she chose it anyway.

Better to use something recognizable and bold than something abstract and hard to understand.

The cloth she chose was jet black, like his hair. Around the edges, she planned to stitch a thin gold trim, and on that line, the crest of the House of Aschart.
The smooth, wave-like transitions would be the highlight of the design.

Five roses in total.
Four red roses, and one white rose in the center.
Perched on the white rose was a small eagle.

It was overly traditional—almost too classical. But in that sense, it was beautiful. It suited the kind of life he lived: something grand and noble, like a character from a story.

The design was strong and clear. And since embroidery had always been one of her favorite hobbies, she could execute it well.

“Hopefully this one doesn’t end up in the trash like last time.”

As she looked over the finished design, Natasha let out a dry laugh. The thought of all the gifts she had once thrown away came rushing back.

“Not that it matters. I’m only doing this because I have to.”

Even though she could tell this Sieghart was different from the man she’d once known, she let her cynicism linger. It was her way of protecting herself—by imagining the worst so she wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

If she focused, she could probably finish the embroidery in a day. But for now, she decided to finish other tasks first. She didn’t want to think about Sieghart Aschart any longer.

“I should start writing those letters.”

Natasha pulled out the guest list Jenkins had given her and began preparing the messages.
Most of the names were either from other countries or from nobles far outside the north. Sending the invitations early was a matter of etiquette—and a sign of sincerity from the House of Aschart.

It would be best to send them as soon as possible.
She’d already stayed up this long—might as well wait a bit longer before going to bed.

But as she read the list, something caught her completely off guard.

Even after checking again carefully, the information didn’t change.

The House of Aschart had made a deeply unpleasant choice.

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