Chapter 06
Having finished getting ready, Iella sat down at her desk before heading out. She pulled out a sheet of paper and gripped her pen tightly, exhaling with a determined look in her eyes—as if making a firm resolution. Betty watched her curiously.
“Whew…”
Iella’s neat handwriting quickly filled the page.
I will accept the commission. The deposit will be returned.
As she stared down at the paper, the word “accept” stood out. The ink looked darker than the rest, as though she had pressed her pen harder, carving her resolve into the page.
She reviewed the message once more—concise and to the point—then placed it in an envelope, along with the 300 denars she had received as a deposit. Sealing the flap with wax, she turned to Betty.
“Betty. Please deliver this to Miss Gieberman.”
As usual, Iella dropped by the art room as soon as her classes ended. The studio was quiet and empty, just like every other day.
Not many even knew this space existed. Even those who did rarely visited consistently—except Iella.
Young noblemen with artistic ambitions typically had their own private studios. And noblewomen? They didn’t dream of becoming painters in earnest. Painting was just a hobby for them, nothing more.
But Iella, the eldest daughter of Viscount Clarence, had loved to draw since she was young—and she was rather good at it too. She had once dreamt of studying seriously at the Royal Academy of Art. But that remained nothing more than an unattainable dream.
Each year, the Academy’s artists held prestigious exhibitions to showcase their paintings and sculptures. Winning a competition or being featured could secure one’s name as a respected artist.
Most of the students at the Royal Academy were from minor noble houses or the middle class. For them, graduating held deep meaning.
But the problem was—and always had been—that the entire student body consisted of men.
The Academy had consistently rejected and excluded women. Art, for women, was considered a mere element of refinement—a tool to cultivate the qualities of a proper lady. It was enough to simply appreciate art, not create it. Women didn’t need to earn money; they just needed to behave, grow up beautiful, and marry well.
Iella’s father had never been particularly fond of her passion for painting. But he hadn’t stopped her either. Perhaps he thought of it as a harmless pastime—acceptable only because no matter how capable or intelligent a woman might be, she could never enter the workforce. A fleeting indulgence before marriage.
While others her age were busy talking about eligible bachelors, Iella remained indifferent. Yet thoughts and reality often clashed.
Especially after her younger sister, Luisa, made a successful debut this year, her mother could hardly go a day without bringing up marriage. Ever since Iella’s own debut at seventeen three years ago, it had been the same story—every year without fail.
Soon, she would be expected to marry an average man, bear children, and live a life just like everyone else. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Iella was resolute in her desire to remain single. But to live alone, she needed money. And women couldn’t inherit wealth or earn it through legitimate means.
The only ways a woman could make money were to sell her body in a brothel—or sell it on stage, as a singer or an actress. Either way, it came down to the same thing.
That’s why painting portraits for money wasn’t just a side job for Iella. It was her only path to independence. Precious. Necessary. The idea of losing that one thing she did well—being forbidden from pursuing it—was devastating.
But she couldn’t stay discouraged forever. That morning, she’d been torn with doubt, wondering if she was truly willing to go this far.
Now, though, there was no room for hesitation. If it was for her goal, she would do anything.
“No matter what it takes,” she murmured, clenching her fist with steely resolve.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“About Franz. They say he bought Publica.”
“Christian, you’re late to the party. That rumor’s been making the rounds for days.”
“Oh—I was away visiting my hometown. I guess that’s when it spread. So, it’s really true?”
“So it seems.”
Publica was a once-prominent newspaper focused on current affairs and economic issues.
With the monarchy firmly established and both society and politics stabilized, the kingdom enjoyed prosperity and cultural growth. The people had nothing but trust and admiration for the crown and its central government. Not even the famously critical Publica could dispute that.
As the years passed peacefully, interest in political commentary waned. People no longer wanted thought-provoking articles. Headaches weren’t fashionable anymore. Life was good—why overthink it?
Instead, gossip and rumor emerged as the perfect entertainment—idle amusement for peaceful times.
To keep up with the public’s tastes, newspapers and magazines started churning out sensationalist content—simple, stimulating, and easy to digest.
The more scandalous the story, the more primal the response. People loved it. After all, the messier someone else’s life was, the more enjoyable it was to talk about.
The so-called “truth” of gossip didn’t matter. A whisper here, a glance there—before long, speculation morphed into certainty, shared over tea or wherever two or more people gathered.
In the tight-knit noble society, even the juiciest rumors came with names, titles, and damning details.
Just days ago, gossip about a young marquess and a famous ballerina being involved had lit up the salons like wildfire.
“No matter how desperate Publica was financially, they’ve always had a stuck-up reputation. I can’t believe Franz managed to buy them out. He’s incredible.”
“He’s been like that with everything. Took over a failing steel company, and then just a few months ago bought the Roland Hotel and turned it around. The man’s a financial genius. I wish I knew his secret.”
“Well, why don’t you just ask him?” the other chuckled.
Christian, sipping his coffee with a sly grin, looked toward the city streets below.
“If only there were ever a good time to bring it up…”
Though they had attended the Academy during the same years and were familiar enough to recognize one another, striking up a conversation with Prince Franz was another matter entirely. You needed the right moment—and those were rare.
Franz always had people clamoring to be around him. Whether for business, sports, love, or leisure, he was always in demand.
Maybe it was because being near him made others feel painfully inferior. Franz knew his own worth—sometimes arrogantly so—but there was no air of superiority, no condescension. That, too, was part of his charm.
With a face so blank it bordered on bored, he could seem lazy—like a drowsy tiger. But in truth, he was always busy. Twenty-four hours wasn’t enough.
His talent wasn’t just natural-born—it was refined through effort and relentless work. And to top it all off, the gods had sculpted him into a creature so perfect that even men had to admit he was beautiful. For women, he was irresistible.
Just then, a commotion broke out in the street.
“Hey, it’s the pride of Billen! The F4 are coming!”
Franz, along with Marco, Richard, and Andrew, strolled past Pelga Square, heading toward the club. Their arrival sent waves of excitement rippling through the crowd—sighs, squeals, chatter, and cheers.
As the group stepped out onto the second-floor balcony, acquaintances began waving and calling out to them.
“Richard, looks like your morning classes are done.”
“Christian! Long time no see. You said you’d be away in Lapitte. When did you get back?”
“Yesterday. You guys headed out for lunch?”
“Just grabbing a bite at the club.”
“Nice timing. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you all together.”
Christian waved at the others as they joined him.
“We ran into each other on the way. So—how was your trip?”
“My father’s health was better than expected, thank goodness. But once I graduate, the real work begins. No more free time for me.”
Christian smacked his lips with regret.
“Good to hear Count Margo is well,” Marco said, taking a seat.
It was a bright day, and the club’s second-floor balcony—overlooking the polished streets and historic architecture—was more crowded than usual.
“This would’ve been the time to return to Lapitte for successor training, but my father said I could wait until after graduation. I’ll be going back for harvest season, though.”
Lapitte was a renowned wine region, rich with vineyards and olive groves. The Margo estate, known for its sweet and flavorful grapes, produced exceptional wine.
“Figures,” someone muttered, wincing at the thought.
“We’ve had a hot year, so the grapes should be extra sweet,” Christian added. “Mother’s quite pleased.”
The Margo family’s wine was a favorite of Queen Elisabeth, Franz’s mother.
She especially enjoyed port-style dessert wines made from late-harvest grapes. Franz wasn’t much of a wine lover, but even he occasionally sipped Margo wines.
While his companions remained unfazed, the noble onlookers around them cast glances filled with envy and awe. After all, when Franz said “my mother,” he meant the Queen.
“With the grapes at their best, it’s an honor for both your family and the estate. Carrying on a tradition loved by Her Majesty—it’s no small thing,” Christian said earnestly.
Franz gave a small nod.
If every heir treated their legacy with such care, the Margo wine tradition would endure for generations—solid and lasting as a home built on stone.
