Chapter 4-1

Three years later.

Time had flown like an arrow. Before she knew it, it had already been six years since she began sponsoring Ruelne.

‘Time really does fly.’

She had lived busily—restlessly—these past years. She had no choice. The moment she allowed herself even the smallest break, Ruelne’s face would rise unbidden in her mind. And so she buried herself in work even more fiercely, telling herself she couldn’t let that happen. A vicious cycle.

Sometimes she felt like a fool. But whenever she asked herself who all of this was for, Jane was able to steady her heart.

At first, she hadn’t intended to keep such a deliberate distance. But something that happened in the Empire only solidified her resolve. It was two years ago.

The sponsorship craze that had ignited around the time she began supporting Ruelne had, astonishingly, refused to die down even after several years. Perhaps it was because the emergence of genius painters, musicians, poets, writers—brilliant artists fostered by patronage—kept injecting society with a steady dose of adrenaline.

The Empire had grown so prosperous and peaceful that more and more nobles and magnates, bored out of their minds or eager to flaunt their wealth, were jumping into the trend.

But as with all things, patronage did not have only a bright side. It hadn’t begun from pure intentions to begin with, and so the side effects were all the worse. Scandals—often of a sexual nature—were quietly buried time and again under the weight of power and money.

Until one day, something exploded too big to suppress.

The Dowager Marchioness of Seymour—once the princess’s tutor, a woman who had captivated an era with her innate beauty, impeccable manners, and elegance. Now the dignified matriarch of a noble house and a pillar of aristocratic society.

A scandal of staggering proportions broke around her.

She was sixty-four.

The other party was a young, promising painter of twenty-eight.

He hadn’t attended Cademel Private School like Ruelne, but he had graduated from a prestigious academy nonetheless—an elite among artists.

In truth, patrons engaging in romantic or physical relationships with those they sponsored was hardly rare. Some called it filthy, indecent—but it had persisted quietly for years.

Cases involving minors were, of course, unacceptable, and the Imperial newspapers were quick to brand those as crimes. But that was considered an issue of individual wrongdoing; it did nothing to extinguish the fervor for patronage itself.

The problem was that the Dowager Marchioness of Seymour hadn’t merely taken a lover or indulged in a temporary affair.

She had announced her intention to marry him.

[Breaking News] Exclusive! The Symbol of an Era, ‘The Dowager Marchioness of Seymour’, Madly in Love with a Younger Man…?!

Aristocratic society—no, the entire upper crust of the Empire—was thrown into chaos.

To them, patronage had always been a form of amusement. An expensive one, yes—but amusement all the same. Something to be enjoyed without responsibility.

Marriage? Marriage meant inheritance. Property. Succession. It meant allowing someone into their world in the most irreversible way imaginable.

And the man in question was neither a noble nor a wealthy gentleman—just a commoner with nothing but talent to his name.

Had it been a young noblewoman, they would have blamed it on the recklessness of youth. Had it been an ordinary society wife, they might have whispered that her husband must have been lacking in some way and left it at that.

But this was the Dowager Marchioness of Seymour. Once lady-in-waiting to the Empress, tutor to the princess—an emblem of noble pride. A symbol of the age itself.

Worse still, she held property rights over the Seymour estate.

Naturally, her children were outraged.

She had married her husband as a matrilocal spouse, bringing him into her household. After an early accident left her unable to bear children with the marquis, she had adopted a distant relative’s child and acknowledged the marquis’s illegitimate child as her own. In other words, the heirs of House Seymour were not of her blood.

Some speculated that she despised these non-blood children so much that she staged the entire affair to avoid leaving them her fortune.

But had that been the case, adopting an heir more to her liking would have been far less damaging to her reputation. The rumor quickly faded.

In the end, the public settled on a far simpler conclusion.

The Dowager Marchioness had lost her mind and fallen in love with the man she had sponsored.

[Exclusive] The Dowager Marchioness of Seymour’s Extravagant Wedding of the Century! The Groom Is…

And in the end, she went through with it.

In an age when the Imperial family was waning, the woman who had symbolized tradition and decorum made a shockingly unconventional choice. The nobles reacted as though they themselves had been insulted, unable to endure the vicarious shame and humiliation.

While people fiercely condemned the Dowager Marchioness Seymour, their arrows—absurdly—ended up turning toward the women in general who sponsored young men instead.

“This is what happens when women are given too much freedom!”

“Patronage? Don’t make me laugh!”

“Women shouldn’t be earning money in the first place!”

Such words circulated mainly within noble circles.

But their effect spread much farther.

For a time, women who sponsored men were openly criticized. Couples where the woman was older walked as though treading on eggshells. Some even suffered direct harm.

Though things had improved compared to the year of the wedding, the truth remained: the gaze directed at female patrons had grown sharper.

And it wasn’t just the women. The men who received sponsorship found themselves mocked at events and banquets, even when invited. The nature of patronage began to shift from what it had once been.

Women felt compelled to prove that their sponsorship was pure. Not that physical relationships or secret affairs disappeared.

They simply sank deeper underground—whispered about in shadows.

In the end, nothing improved. It merely became more hidden. Worse for both patron and protégé.

Especially for someone like Jane, who had begun with wholly sincere intentions.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?”

That evening, a bottle of strong liquor sat on the table. Jane merely stared at it, while across from her sat a woman with her red hair tied back neatly.

Camilla—Jane’s co-CEO and longtime friend.

Camilla spoke with flushed cheeks.

“The Dowager Marchioness says she wants to spend the rest of her life having fun with a younger man—good for her! Why does everyone have so much to say about someone else’s life? It’s been two years and they’re still chewing on it! Aren’t they sick of it? Even today, at the salon I visited for business, some old lady was going on and on—‘She’s senile,’ ‘A woman shouldn’t behave like that’—talking behind her back. She said it loud enough for me to hear! Because I’m a female executive!”

Camilla was already a little drunk. She snorted.

“They’re just jealous. That’s what it is.”

Jane, who had little taste for hard liquor, was nursing a nearly non-alcoholic wine instead. It had been a while since she’d met her friend like this; someone had to stay sober enough to prevent disaster.

“Are they?”

“Yes! Jane, think about it. A young man—imagine how much stamina he must have. The woman badmouthing her today was old herself. She’s jealous! Dying of envy. They don’t have the guts—or they care too much about their precious dignity. Or they simply can’t manage it. They couldn’t have a love of the century with a younger man even if they wanted to.”

“Why not? Everyone and their dog is sponsoring someone these days.”

Jane’s tone was dry. Camilla grinned.

“Sure, fine. Filthy as it is, you can buy a body with money and power. But look at this—she married him. Told society to shove it. ‘Love conquers all!’ How are those refined noble ladies supposed to say that out loud?”

She giggled.

“Of course people say the young painter was after her money, her house. Who knows the truth? But it’s been two years already. If he’d been after her fortune, he would’ve divorced her after one. Under Imperial law, you gain property rights after a year of marriage.”

“She could’ve made him sign a contract blocking any claim to her assets.”

“Oh, my dear Jane, excellent point. Which reminds me of something I heard…”

Camilla lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“Apparently, before marrying the Marchioness Dowager, that young painter was offered patronage by the princess. And he turned it down.”

“…The princess?”

The Imperial family’s power had waned, but their accumulated wealth had not vanished. If money had been his goal, accepting the princess’s patronage would have made far more sense.

She was infamous for fiery, contractual romances with her protégés—paying them off and sending them away once she grew bored.

Camilla smiled broadly.

“So I’ve decided to cast my vote for true love!”

“Fine, cast one vote or two—just stop drinking. Your husband’s going to cry again. Why are you fantasizing about someone else’s young man while making your own cry?”

“Oh, my husband, Anthony! He mustn’t cry.”

Camilla set her glass down.

“Anyway, as long as it’s not a crime, what’s wrong with mutual consent? Why are they hunting women like vermin…?”

She wasn’t wrong.

The Marchioness Dowager’s case had simply been unusually shocking. If the genders were reversed, it was incredibly common for a sponsored young woman to marry a patron ten or twenty years her senior.

Wasn’t the very name ‘Daddy-Long-Legs’ something Jane herself had borrowed from a famous article about such arrangements?

And yet, swap the genders—and suddenly this conservative country found it unacceptable.

Despite the fact that the times had changed, and many women now thrived as business leaders, professionals, even members of parliament.

Jane rested her chin on her hand.

Whenever she heard about the Marchioness Dowager, a faint ache stirred in her chest. The age gap. The patron attacked. The sponsored man criticized just as harshly. People calling it a filthy relationship.

‘It doesn’t feel like someone else’s story.’

Of course, she would never entangle herself with Ruelne. Never create such an incident.

But in a world of newspapers and gossip columns, even a chimney with no fire could smoke.

Just then, Camilla smiled mischievously.

“So how’s your adorable Candy doing?”

Jane’s hand slipped.

“W-what? Cough—Candy?”

“Why so startled? Your beautiful, ridiculously handsome Candy. That refreshing young lord of yours.”

“…What is with that nickname?”

“Hehe.”

Camilla narrowed her eyes.

Lately, her dear friend Jane looked like a wilted stalk of wheat. It had been this way for about three years now.

And yet—mention that young lord, and her eyes would light up.

Obvious as daylight.

How is that any different from when you were little, staring at candy with sparkling eyes?

You’ve always looked at the things you love like that.

“Oh, never mind. I won’t tell you! Should we talk about something more interesting?”

Camilla smoothly changed the subject.

“I saw your student today.”

Jane’s eyes widened.

“…Where?”

“At the awards ceremony for the writing competition sponsored by our company. There were tons of Cademel students there. Your young lord was among them.”

Cademel students were allowed to attend public events starting in their fourth year. Jane knew that.

No—not just knew.

From his fourth year until now, his sixth, she had kept track of every salon, banquet, fundraiser, exhibition Ruelne attended.

To confess in advance, this wasn’t her fault.

Most of the time, Ruelne informed her directly through letters. The rest, her aides insisted on relaying to her. And sometimes she found out on her own.

‘Because I debated whether to go.’

She wanted to see him.

And yet, if they were to meet by chance—what expression would she even wear?

In the end, she always chose not to go.

Ruelne likely had no idea his sponsor was ever that close.

“He was seriously handsome. How old is he now? Twenty-four? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Oh, prime age. Wouldn’t be strange if he were already married…”

“What are you talking about! Marriage should come after you’ve established yourself!”

Camilla’s eyes widened.

Well, well?

Then she smiled slyly.

Oh, my dear Jane. You react so sharply and still don’t know yourself?

She pitied her friend—three years in this state—but there was a reason she said nothing.

‘Our lady is far too good for some younger brat who hasn’t built a thing yet!’

Camilla, who owed Jane and her family greatly, could only glare suspiciously at the thought.

He’s still young. Still a student. What if Jane ends up the only one hurt?

And yet, as if to make her worry seem foolish, Ruelne Scharnhost had, after regaining his sight through Jane’s help, begun gradually rebuilding the once-ruined Duchy of Scharnhost.

No one knew where he had conceived his ideas, but he participated in student business promotion projects, successfully launching ventures. He even gathered several students, secured investments, and turned a profit.

To Camilla—who ran massive enterprises—it was small scale.

But she knew how difficult it was for someone with no foundation, who had lost everything, and who had only just regained his vision.

‘A student businessman, honestly.’

Though he would graduate this year and no longer be a student.

Still, Camilla was dissatisfied.

‘Even our lawyer said something about him felt off.’

And with his frequent appearances at public events and banquets, women lined up to admire and confess to him.

Of course she was displeased.

Perhaps she was overly conservative when it came to Jane’s future partner.

Watching Jane’s expression, Camilla continued.

“Well, he is at that age. What’s wrong with dating? Once? Dozens of times? Perfectly normal. If he’d remained a proper noble, he’d have been engaged before ten and married by now.”

“…”

Jane’s face darkened instantly.

“Jane, why don’t you come with me to Madam Rina’s masquerade tomorrow? There’s supposed to be an incredible performance.”

“…Why did the topic suddenly go there? You have a family—should you even be going to places like that?”

“I’m going to watch you have fun. You should meet a fantastic man there and have a mind-blowing night!”

That blasted young lord goes to salons and banquets just fine, while my friend rots away in her office working!

‘And he won’t even notice you writing fewer letters!’

Damn it. Camilla felt deeply wronged.

Wronged enough that she wanted to storm up to Ruelne, grab him by the collar, and drag him in front of Jane.

Though she was too afraid Jane would never look at her again if she did.

“Do you know how terrifying a hot night can be? Bodies meet—and then sometimes hearts follow!”

“…Like you?”

“Yes, like me! Listen, do you know that blissful lovemaking is good for a woman’s health? Stripping everything off, pressing your bodies together, mm?”

The alcohol loosened Camilla’s tongue.

“Stop holding back and pick someone there. Feel his solid shoulders. Touch his chest. Check how big he is! And imagine the man you chose exploring beneath me. Do you have any idea how good that feels?”

“…That’s enough, Camilla.”

Jane pressed a hand to her temple.

The problem was, she needed to stop Camilla from going any further—

‘She’s lost her mind. Completely.’

For a split second, she found herself picturing a devastatingly handsome man with ash-gray hair. The one person she absolutely, never should have imagined. He would be even more fully grown now than the last time she’d seen him—touching Jane’s cheek, his hand sliding lower, beneath the thin chemise, to her breast—

“Feels incredible, you know? Back then you were begging for more. ‘Suck harder,’ remember? Want him to touch your chest too?”

Against the backdrop of her friend’s unabashedly filthy commentary—so drunk she no longer held anything back—Jane’s cheeks flamed red, though she hadn’t had a single drink.

She shot to her feet.

She had to be insane. How could she dare cast Ruelne—someone she was meant to regard with pure intentions—as the man in her imagined bedroom?

‘…Am I really that pent up?’

Unaware of Jane’s tangled thoughts, Camilla glanced up at her.

“…Should I really go?”

“Hmm? You’re actually going?”

But instead of leaving, her friend just stood there, fidgeting with an envelope in her hands. A letter from that idiot Ruelne—she’d even brought it here!

“No. Never mind.”

And just like that, she refused—as if she hadn’t just been about to go.

“Besides, I’m about to have an engagement ceremony soon. I should be more careful.”

“Careful my ass! You don’t know? That bastard—ugh, I mean your fiancé—struts in and out of that place like he owns it. What’s the problem?”

Jane only smiled faintly, her face cool and composed.

“That’s true.”

She’d seen him herself earlier that very day.

Hadn’t he even said this to her?

“And Miss Shirley? Next time, perhaps we could attend Madame Yurla’s masquerade in the western district together….”

Among the many decadent masquerades, that one was infamous for being the filthiest and most vulgar of them all. To suggest it to a respectable woman was an insult. To propose it to one’s fiancée was worse.

‘He’s useful, at least… in a way.’

Meanwhile, Camilla—who had been loudly cursing Jane’s fiancé for quite some time—suddenly sprang to her feet.

“Fine! I won’t push you anymore! Hmph! Oh, right! You’d better come to my business presentation this time, okay? You’ve been saying you’ll come for years and then never showing up! Got it?”

Her words slurred at the edges. She was thoroughly drunk now.

“…Okay. I get it. I’ll definitely come this time. I promise.”

“You’d better swear on something precious! Swear on your family!”

“I promise. There. Satisfied? Now will you please sit down? You’re completely drunk. I’ll call Anthony.”

“I’m not druunk! Let’s drink more, huh? Oh, right, you don’t drink… so weak. Fraaagile.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

As the night deepened and her friend finally passed out mid-ramble,

Jane sat silently, gazing into her untouched glass. Her eyes grew distant.