Forgotten Wife My Ex-Husband Regrets It After I Left (Clara and Liam) novel Chapter 288

Sienna’s POV

All I could do was watch as the graphite pencil in Rudolf’s hand moved swiftly across the paper. He didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t explain what he was drawing. Just line after line appearing, slowly forming something. His focus was so intense that I felt my presence in the room nearly fade into silence.

The studio was quiet, save for the soft scrape of graphite against paper. Daylight poured in through the large window on the left, falling directly onto his worktable, as if the world itself had chosen to spotlight a single point: his hands.

His sleeves were slightly rolled up, revealing veins that tightened each time he pressed the pencil harder. There was a rhythm to it fast, then slowing, pausing for a fraction of a second, then moving again with renewed certainty.

I sat across from him, my back unconsciously straight. My notebook was still open on my lap, but my gaze no longer drifted down to it. All my notes, all the concepts I had carefully arranged in my head earlier, felt like distant echoes. The only thing that felt real was the process unfolding in front of me.

Rudolf occasionally tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, then erased a small portion of a line with the eraser at the end of his pencil. There was no exaggerated expression on

his face, only a serious calm. As if he were holding a dialogue with something only he could see.

I swallowed softly. There was an urge to ask questions. To make sure what he was drawing matched what I had imagined. To say that my main character carried invisible wounds, or that the world I had built was darker than it appeared at first glance. The words circled at the tip of my tongue, pressing to be released.

But every time I parted my lips even slightly, his hand moved again faster, more assured. The rough lines began to find their shape. A silhouette emerged. Not just an image, but an impression. An emotion.

My chest warmed with a strange mix of awe and fear.

Awe, because he seemed to truly understand without long explanations. Fear, because I didn’t know how far he was interpreting my thoughts or perhaps, piercing straight through them.

I silenced myself, afraid of breaking the concentration that felt like a sacred ritual.

The sound of the pencil stopped. Rudolf lifted his head.

“Do you want to see?” he asked briefly.

I nodded and leaned a little closer. He turned the sketchbook toward me.

On the page was the sketch of a fragile woman, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest. Her hair fell forward,framing her pale face. But the look in her eyes the one Rudolf had given her was different. Not the gaze of someone weak or resigned, but eyes that held something burning deep within. Wounds and courage.

My chest suddenly felt warm.

“This,” My voice wavered. “This is incredibly close to my character.”

Rudolf closed the sketchbook gently. “I’m not finished,” he said flatly. “But I know how to make the cover you want.

You just need to give me more specific details.”

I straightened.

“What kind of details?”

“Colors. Atmosphere. Important symbols.” He gestured to the long table beside me. “There are several color palette catalogs there. Choose the one that best fits the tone of your book.”

I stood and walked over to the table. There were many palette books, each with a different theme: dark, pastel, dramatic, warm, cold. It felt like stepping into a world full of hidden messages.

Rudolf shrugged. “Once I understand the direction, the rest is just technique.”

I clasped my hands in my lap. “Then thank you. I trulyappreciate you being willing to work with me.”

He looked at me for a moment, his expression hard to read. “I only accept projects when the writer has something they’re fighting for.” He twirled the pencil between his fingers. “You have that.”

I froze.

Then I looked down, unsure how to respond. “I just want my work to speak even without Emily as its face.”

Rudolf didn’t ask who Emily was. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to know.

Thankfully.

He closed the sketchbook and stood. “I’ll contact you for our next meeting. You can go home.”

“Oh.” I stood as well. “All right.”

I tidied my bag and walked toward the door. The room that had once felt intimidating now felt like a place safe enough to breathe. Before leaving, I turned back toward him.

“Thank you, Rudolf.”

He only nodded, already back in front of his computer.