I’ve Decided to Let You Go - Chapter 72

After the evening banquet, Jenkins returned and said his review was complete. He suggested they quickly send letters to the noble families they hoped would support and attend the Harvest Festival.

Natasha, who had retreated to her study the moment dinner ended, began drafting a list and writing the letters.

Since the festival was just three weeks away, there wasn’t time for formal visits. She had no choice but to ask for their understanding in writing. Each letter had to be carefully filled with polite greetings and thoughtful explanations.

There were so many to write. Her hand was already aching, nearly numb, yet half the letters still remained.

Natasha stretched her clasped hands forward, gently massaging her wrists and knuckles to soothe the pain. Slowly, her hand began to recover enough to keep writing.

“I remember rushing like this before…”

The memory of last year surfaced—how she had scrambled to organize a banquet after being bedridden for several days. That, too, had been a chaotic rush.

“But this time, I chose this for myself. That makes it better.”

When she learned the truth about Kayeina through the Emperor, and later spent the memorial days with Sieghart and their family, her mind had felt contaminated—so consumed with grief it hardly belonged to the living.

She was going through the motions of daily life, but none of it felt real. None of it felt like living.

So, she made a choice: Clear the mind, stay busy.

The woman who fled from pain put on the mask of the Duchess. And strangely, her heart began to settle.

After she honored the memory of Sieghart and her parents, the tormenting voices that had haunted her faded. For the first time in a long while, she felt strong enough to face the everyday.

There were still moments when unexplained emotions rose up toward Sieghart—and when bitter feelings of betrayal toward Kayeina clawed at her—but…

When she buried herself in work, those feelings faded quickly.

“Even now, I’m wasting my break on useless thoughts.”

Natasha let out a small laugh, then picked the letter back up. She had to keep going before her thoughts ran too far ahead of her.

Since it was a regional celebration, they contacted every noble family in the North. Of the twenty-five houses, twenty-one agreed to support the festival.

Three of the oldest Imperial-loyalist families and two on the verge of bankruptcy declined the invitation, saying they appreciated the offer but couldn’t participate.

The remaining twenty-one threw themselves into the preparations. From hiring staff to decorate the villa, to supplying furnishings and managing logistics—they took care of it all. Thanks to their help, the tight schedule became manageable.

Public attention soon followed.

The Harvest Festival, once discontinued to celebrate Emperor Kail Letius’s achievements, was being revived after years in the shadows.

Because the timing of the two celebrations overlapped, many regions had chosen to abandon the harvest tradition in favor of Victory Day. One by one, other provinces followed suit.

Ever since, farmers across the Empire had quietly held small village gatherings to mark the end of the harvest.

But not being able to celebrate together—to share in the joy of reaping what they had worked so hard to grow—was a painful loss.

To them, the accomplishments of Emperor Kail Letius didn’t mean much. What mattered was surviving the year and giving thanks for the crops that would carry them through the next.

They wanted to celebrate the harvest, and to pray for peace in the year to come.

And so, the Aschart Duchy’s efforts to restore the festival struck a deep chord with them. Public opinion grew warmer, and even the press praised the return of the Harvest Festival.

“Okay, place that over there. That one’s a little crooked—straighten it out. Wait, no, you’ve switched statue #2 with statue #3. They each have a meaning. The order matters, so please fix it.”

There was no room for mistakes—not today.

Three hours remained before the festival would begin. Sieghart was managing the auction hall, where the nobles’ charity auction would take place. Natasha was in charge of the prayer hall.

“Perfect!”

The ceilings, floors, windows, chairs, decorations, and statues were all polished to a shine. The chairs were arranged at equal distances, everything in its place.

“You’ve all worked so hard. Thanks to your efforts, the Harvest Festival will begin in perfect condition.”

After her fifth and final inspection, Natasha addressed the staff with heartfelt thanks. It was finally done.

Only two hours remained until the official start of the festival.

She had spent too much time checking the prayer hall. Considering the remaining preparations and the time needed to greet guests, the schedule was going to be tight.

She was hurrying down the hall toward the powder room when it happened.

As she passed through the corridor, she came face-to-face with someone she hadn’t expected.

Walking toward her from the opposite side was Sieghart.

Since that day, they hadn’t had a single personal interaction.

Sieghart had been occupied with completing the necessary training before the festival, and Natasha had been buried in planning and coordination. As a result, both had secluded themselves in their respective offices.

“….”

He slowed his steps as he approached, eventually stopping just a few paces in front of her. It was clear he was waiting for her to close the distance.

Today had to be perfect. What had started as a form of escape had grown into a large-scale event—and now that it had come this far, she had a responsibility to see it through flawlessly.

That meant she had to walk past him. Pretend not to see him. If she spoke, if she even acknowledged him, she knew the emotions she had fought so hard to suppress would break free.

So she kept walking, forcing herself not to react.

But just as she moved past him, something stopped her.

The hand that had been holding the hem of her dress was suddenly caught—lightly at first, then firmly, as if claimed.

On any other day, Natasha would’ve turned sharply, her eyes flashing with irritation at the rudeness. She would’ve asked what he thought he was doing.

But today, she stayed quiet. Patient. Still.

She didn’t even look back at him. She stood with her back to Sieghart.

And surprisingly, he said nothing either. At this point, she would’ve expected him to murmur her name, however quietly. But he stayed silent.

The only change was the way his grip tightened slightly around her hand.

Then, he gently raised her hand. A soft sensation brushed against the back of it—warm, deliberate.

“May the glorious month of Aschart be blessed.”

His lips left a quiet mark as they lifted away. Behind her, his footsteps began again—calm, steady, each one landing with the grace of a conductor’s baton. Like the quiet pulse of an orchestra.

So foolish…

By the time the sound of his steps faded behind her, Natasha finally began walking again. Her steps, in contrast, were not graceful. They felt clumsy—almost careless.

Without thinking, I responded to him…

May you be blessed as well.

She had answered him in her heart.

It wasn’t just a polite formality. If she had wanted to do the right thing, she would’ve said it out loud, directly, as etiquette demanded.

No—this silent reply had been her honest, raw emotion. She shouldn’t have spoken to him, not even in thought. And yet, her heart had quietly confessed its longing.

Why…?

Too late, Natasha turned around.

There he was, still standing in the distance. His red eyes stared after her—waiting, almost pleading for the mercy she would not give.

It was thirty minutes before the festival began.

Now fully prepared, Natasha stepped outside to greet the arriving guests.

Welcome gifts, prepared to show gratitude for attending the festival, had been arranged neatly in a visible spot.

In front of the main gate, the flags of House Aschart and the twenty-one co-hosting families were proudly raised. They fluttered gently in the breeze—a beautiful sight.

Finally, she lined up the guides in two neat rows.

Ten minutes before the hour, early guests began to arrive with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. Natasha welcomed them warmly, encouraging them to come inside rather than wait at the entrance.

From five minutes before the start, more and more people began to arrive. And at the exact hour, the crowd swelled all at once, like a stream bursting through a dam.

Even the notoriously punctual nobles began appearing right on time.

With bright smiles, they thanked Natasha for hosting the Harvest Festival.

It felt strange, this celebration she had chosen in an attempt to avoid her feelings was now earning her affection and trust. A bit awkward, yes, but maybe it was deserved. She had thrown herself into the preparations with sincerity.

At some point, she realized she was proud. She genuinely felt the reward of her hard work.

Guests headed toward either the prayer hall or the auction room. Those going to the prayer hall received yellow welcome gifts; those headed to the auction hall received red ones. Guides used the colors to sort them and led them accordingly.

An hour into the festival, most of the guests had arrived. Natasha instructed the remaining guides to stay at the gate for thirty more minutes, then made her way toward the auction hall.

Sieghart was already there, greeting the host families from the back entrance. He stood at a table marked with the “House Aschart” nameplate.

Natasha offered him a brief nod in greeting, then turned to greet the nobles already seated at the table. Some had traveled from far away to attend.

She also made a point to personally thank each of the supporting families. Only after exchanging pleasantries with all of them did, she finally return to her seat and take a sip of water.

It seemed the auction was about to begin.

A man in a crisp tuxedo stepped onto the stage. His presence immediately drew everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! It is an honor to host you all for this glorious Harvest Festival. Now, please join me in welcoming the nobleman who will open the festivities with a formal address—Marquis Leonardo! Let’s give him a warm round of applause!”

The emcee was none other than the most popular theater actor in the Empire. With his signature deep, resonant voice, he began the opening act of the auction with style.

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