In contrast to the brightly lit stage, the audience seats lay submerged in darkness. It was not easy to read the expression on the face of the young man standing within it.
Martin, who had been nervously stealing glances at the man’s profile—his black hair swept back to reveal strikingly handsome features—carefully spoke.
“What do you think, Count Everscourt? If you would like a recommendation—”
“Just a moment.”
The Count raised a hand slightly as he leaned toward his secretary, who had approached him. The effortless elegance in that small gesture made Martin fall silent. The Count’s expression grew notably serious as he listened to the whispered report.
No matter how refined they pretended to be, in the end, all they chose was a woman to share their bed with.
Men who came looking for singers to sponsor rarely cared about the singing more than the face—it was obvious enough. Still, it was somewhat unexpected to see this young noble join the ranks of such indulgent men.
Hugh Skaard. Head of the House of Everscourt and the owner of Skaard Enterprises.
A man who bore two radiant names—one symbolizing the glory of a long-standing aristocratic lineage, the other representing the capital power of a new era. After inheriting his title, he had spent two years in the military and the following year abroad on business, only returning home a few weeks ago.
Even while he was away from high society, newspapers had tirelessly reported his brilliant business achievements—and his even more brilliant face. Thanks to that, his status in society had never diminished.
A perfect noble. A born businessman. The ideal groom.
Seeing that such a man, praised so highly, was here choosing a woman after all, it seemed that before being a noble, he was still, inevitably, a man.
“The blonde woman in the sky-blue dress behind the sofa on the right.”
After quickly scanning the stage—where a lavish party of nobles and courtesans was underway—Martin located the Count’s choice and let out a quiet sigh.
“Ah…”
Of all people… Maylily.
Wasn’t she that troublesome newcomer who hadn’t even stood on a proper stage yet, and had already rejected sponsorship twice? Martin still broke into a cold sweat remembering how hard it had been to calm the furious nobles whose pride she had wounded with her stubborn refusals.
“That girl is a newcomer who hasn’t been here long. I’m concerned she may not meet your refined standards, Count.”
“It doesn’t matter. Bring her.”
At the gentle yet firm command, Martin swallowed a sigh of resignation. All he could do now was hope that the Count’s beauty and overwhelming authority would succeed in bringing Maylily to her knees.
“Then I will escort her to the director’s office immediately.”
The sharp tapping of shoes against the marble hallway floor suddenly stopped. Director Martin Fritz turned to look at Maylily, who had been following a step behind.
“Count Hugh Skaard of Everscourt is looking for you.”
Caught off guard after being abruptly called out during rehearsal, Maylily looked confused.
“Count… Everscourt?”
“Yes. He took a liking to you during the rehearsal stage and expressed interest in sponsoring you.”
Her question had only been meant to clarify the unfamiliar name, but the director spoke as if she should already know it.
“He’s on a completely different level from those nobles before. If you offend him, I won’t let you off easily.”
“Director, but…”
“But what! Unless you want to remain a chorus member your whole life, stop talking back and do your best to please him.”
Within an opera company, singers were divided into soloists and chorus members. Unlike chorus members, who appeared in group performances or minor roles, soloists played major parts. Since soloists made up only about 20% of the total, competition for those positions was fierce everywhere.
To survive that competition, it was just as important to secure a powerful sponsor as it was to possess exceptional talent. That was why many singers accepted sponsorships—whether they wanted to or not.
“I trust you won’t make the foolish mistake of clinging to your pride again.”
With that blunt warning, the sound of footsteps resumed. Maylily parted her lips briefly but ultimately couldn’t voice the words lingering at the tip of her tongue.
“This is Maylily Isle. In her first year at the Pudshire Opera Company, she astonishingly performed a leading role, marking herself as a remarkable talent. We have high expectations for her future here at the Roden Opera Company. As you can see, she’s also exceptionally beautiful.”
The director, usually stingy with praise, now spoke like a merchant eager to sell off unsold goods. Embarrassed by the exaggerated compliments, Maylily fidgeted with the hem of her skirt beside him.
“I’d like to speak with Miss Isle alone.”
Contrary to her expectations of a frightening man, his voice was low and gentle.
“Yes, then please enjoy your conversation.”
The director stepped aside without protest, once again reminding Maylily that the man before her was a high-ranking guest. Swallowing nervously, she bowed.
“Hello. My name is Maylily Isle.”
The man seated on the reception sofa looked to be in his mid-twenties. Leaning back with one leg crossed, his posture appeared both arrogant and elegant.
In a word—very noble.
Light slid along his neatly styled black hair, passing over his straight forehead and high nose, casting a cool shadow across his sharply defined features. His blue-gray eyes, set within long, narrow lids, slowly swept over Maylily from head to toe.
His gaze—sharp and lingering, as if appraising something—made her uncomfortable. As she lowered her head slightly, the pale upper curve of her chest, exposed by the low neckline of her costume, came into view. The courtesan outfit, which hadn’t bothered her on stage, suddenly felt mortifying.
His gaze lingered on her chest, rising and falling with each breath, and it burned against her skin. A sudden urge to flee struck her, while another part of her felt like collapsing right there.
There was something in his gaze that stirred her sense of humiliation—something she had never felt even under more openly lustful stares. Just as she tightly shut and reopened her eyes to shake it off—
“Come, sit.”
After a long moment, the Count finished his appraisal and spoke. His tone remained gentlemanly, utterly unlike the invasive intensity of his gaze.
Maylily sat across from him, folding her hands neatly on her lap.
“You know why I called for you?”
“Yes. The director told me you wished to discuss sponsoring me.”
The Count gave a slight nod and moved straight to the point.
“Do you have any conditions?”
“Well… um…”
“If it’s difficult to say, I can present my terms first.”
Though the director’s warning weighed heavily on her mind, it was better to reject an offer she had no intention of accepting quickly. Clenching her hands, Maylily steadied herself.
“I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t wish to receive sponsorship.”
Her voice trembled, but her intent was clear. The Count let out a short laugh.
“How interesting. I didn’t expect a refusal.”
As if intrigued, he straightened up, took out a cigar case, and lit one. Smoking in front of a non-smoker was impolite, but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest. After all, Maylily was neither a noble nor a lady.
A haze of smoke briefly obscured his face before clearing, his expression unchanged. Yet instinctively, Maylily felt his mood had shifted.
As she swallowed both her rising cough and her anxiety, he spoke.
“Are you satisfied staying where you are now? You didn’t leave Pudshire just to remain a chorus member, did you?”
“Even if it takes time, I want to rise through my own efforts. A position earned that way is more meaningful to me.”
“How naïve.”
His voice carried no overt criticism. But in the city, naïveté was rarely a compliment, and a bad feeling crept over her. A faint trace of mockery flickered in his blue-gray eyes as he watched her.
“You know opera has traditionally been a privilege of the nobility. Their desire to exclusively enjoy high culture is what drove its development and created stages for singers like you today. And yet, being part of that world, you believe you can stand alone, free from their influence?”
“It may not be easy, but I don’t think it’s impossible. There are people who’ve done it.”
“Well.”
“……”
“Aren’t you past the age of believing the world works exactly as it appears?”
She had no desire to be understood by a man who mocked her beliefs. More than anything, she just wanted to end this pointless conversation and return to rehearsal.
“Even if the world doesn’t align with my beliefs, my decision won’t change.”
The man drew deeply on his cigar before exhaling slowly, his gaze once again sweeping over her face and body. Her cheeks flushed under that humiliating scrutiny.
A faint smile curved his lips.
“You’ll regret it.”
