No One Ever Loved Me - Chapter 113

Even after losing what she once believed was true love—and with it, her child—Elodie hadn’t been worn down by despair.

That strength was admirable. But to avoid falling into despair, she’d had to lock even her desire for revenge away, like a secret sealed in a box and sunk deep underwater.

From everything I’d seen and lived, I knew: love was an incredibly destructive force.

It was love that had once made Elodie dismiss the world’s scorn as little more than a tickle.
And now, it was love that made her ready to bring Edgar down.

All I needed to do was show her that it was possible.

Nobles were nobles, no matter how unimpressive, and commoners—no matter how gifted—remained commoners.
Elodie had testified in court not out of vengeance, but out of guilt.

After losing her child, she must have finally seen how utterly vile Edgar was.
And Cecilia—who’d suffered because of Elodie’s presence in her marriage—had once called that monster her husband.

Even as she watched it all unfold, Elodie hadn’t been able to let Edgar go. Her testimony must have been her way of atoning for those choices.

Ricardo would’ve scoffed, calling it a selfish decision made for her own comfort, but I respected Elodie’s courage—because she acted on her convictions.

“I won’t use you as a shield, Elodie. All I ask is that you stop resting and start working again. Just your presence in public will force Edgar to wait longer—hoping time will erase the memory of what he did.”

“Is Count Linton still in hiding?”

He hadn’t taken a single step out of the Linton estate.

While Elodie had been forced into the old quarter to escape either real fans or dangerous stalkers, Edgar simply hid behind the protection of his title.

“Calling it ‘hiding’ seems too generous. You’ve been there—you know the Linton estate is practically a luxury resort. He could hole up there for months and not be the least bit uncomfortable.”

The message was clear: you’re the only one suffering.

“Theaters might tolerate me for a few weeks. But they don’t like performers without patrons. Running a theater costs money, and no matter how many sold-out nights I have, ticket sales alone won’t cover everything.”

I understood now why she had declined their offers.

No noble would be quick to sponsor a scandal-plagued actress—especially not a woman.
Unfortunately, in this world, being an artist often meant living with a glossy illusion.

Many had to sell what they never wanted to just to survive.

“I’ll do it.”

“…What?”

“I’ll be your sponsor. I was just wondering what to do with the money I reclaimed from Edgar’s estate. Thanks to you, I’ve been able to dig deeper into his finances. Even if you weren’t valuable, I would’ve helped. But you are—and now I feel guilty that I might be the only one benefiting.”

Sponsoring artists was usually a man’s pursuit—one that let bored, wealthy noblemen appear cultured while entertaining themselves.

Unmarried women couldn’t move about freely without rumors, and married women who managed household finances rarely dared indulge in such luxuries.

“You’ll be my patron…? Aren’t you worried what people might say?”

“Not really. I’m no longer Countess Linton. The money comes from the estate my mother left me, so it’s not part of House Rosette’s assets. Why should I hoard it just to appease other people’s opinions?”

Elodie looked stunned.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d been too blunt—so I reconsidered my wording.

“If you go back to performing, you’ll inevitably be linked to Edgar again. And if I become your patron, that connection will only grow stronger. If that would bother you, I can use a different name. Anonymous patrons aren’t unheard of in your world, right?”

I’d put Margaret in an uncomfortable position by speaking out of turn at her wedding.

Margaret had been free to refuse me. Elodie wasn’t in the same position, so I didn’t want to seem like I was forcing her.

“Lady Cecilia…”

Elodie lowered her gaze, avoiding mine.
Is she crying? I wondered. I didn’t mind comforting others, but emotional labor was exhausting.

And Elodie—though only for a moment—had reminded me too much of my mother.

Someone who believed love was worth going to hell for.

Cecilia had thought that too.
I’d settled the debt I owed to Cecilia, but I’d dragged Elodie to court and still hadn’t given her anything in return. That weighed on me.

If I was going to repay this debt, I’d rather do it all at once. Taking the slow route would only let it haunt me longer.

“You’re not the person I thought you were.”

Elodie finally spoke, eyes still lowered.

Well, of course not. I wasn’t the real Cecilia—so of course I wasn’t like the woman she used to know.

“When you said you didn’t love Count Linton, I got angry, remember?”

I had to think for a moment—ah, right. It was after the banquet. Elodie had stayed late, and I’d offered to let her use a guest room. That was when the topic came up.

“I was so furious. I loved him so much—so much that I was willing to stay by his side, even without a title. And yet the woman who had him said she didn’t love him. I couldn’t stand it.”

“That makes sense.”

“Does it? I was obsessed. I did everything I could to keep him from going home to you—because I was jealous, even while I felt guilty.”

Edgar had stayed away from home for long stretches.
But even before I became Cecilia, that had been a common occurrence.
She’d written about it in her journals, too.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to decline your sponsorship.”

Elodie lifted her head and met my eyes, her voice firm.

That felt a little out of place, I thought. Wasn’t she supposed to be agreeing to join forces to take down our common enemy, Edgar?

“I don’t want to trouble you any further, Lady Cecilia. I’ll find my own patron. Don’t worry—no matter how the theater tries to push me out, I’ll hold on.”

“But I want to support you.”

“No, Lady Cecilia, you should focus on wiping out Count Linton. As for me, I’ll make sure people see that I’m struggling financially because of him. If I can stir up public sympathy, more fans will come. Then the theater won’t be so quick to pressure me about finding a sponsor.”

Having decided everything on her own, Elodie stood, saying she had much to do, and began ushering me out.

“The man earlier wasn’t wrong. The old quarter isn’t safe. You should head back before it gets dark.”

She didn’t physically push me, but she used the excuse of escorting me to gently, but firmly, get me to the door.

“Elodie, wait—just listen a little more.”

“Thank you. For coming to see me.”

She opened the door and turned away before hearing my reply.
The buildings here had awful soundproofing, and I could clearly hear her break into sobs from behind the door.

“Elodie…”

“If you’re looking for Lord Ricardo, he’s right over here.”

Instead of the guard who was supposed to be waiting, I found Ricardo casually leaning against the wall.

“You can call me Ricky, if you want.”

“Lord Ricardo. What are you doing here?”

“Someone decided to sneak out on me, so I had to run that poor horse into the ground.”

He pointed down the hill. There stood the poor beast, tongue lolling, chest heaving.

“You really did a good job covering your tracks. I nearly had to turn the entire capital upside down trying to find you.”

I hadn’t told anyone where I was going.
So even if Ricardo had threatened the staff into talking, they wouldn’t have had anything to say.

I’d have to compensate the poor maids at the Rosette estate—no doubt they bore the brunt of his misplaced frustration.

“Well then… what about Count Berger? Is he still at the estate?”

“Of course not. I already sent him off. You think I’d just leave behind something you asked me to handle?”

“I did wonder.”

“Don’t insult me.”

I glanced at him briefly, then gathered my skirt to carefully descend the treacherous stairs.

“I’m starting to think Margaret was right when she called you a stalker.”

Ricardo scowled at the mention of Margaret’s name, then immediately stepped in behind me, gently guiding me down with a strong arm around my waist.

Thanks to him, I completely forgot about the dangerous, railing-less stairs.

“Lady Margaret has a knack for making up stories.”

“Half-truths sell better than outright lies.”

“Sounds like Lady Margaret has a flair for embellishment.”

“In this case, the real embellisher is you, Lord Ricardo.”

The guard, now seated up front, snapped to attention at Ricardo’s presence.
But Ricardo ignored him completely, too busy opening the carriage door for me.

Looking at the poor, slumped guard, I almost felt like I’d stolen his secret crush.
He clearly feared Ricardo, but also admired him—what name do you give that feeling?

“Lia, if you keep flirting with other men, I’m going to be hurt.”

Ricardo, of course, didn’t understand his own emotions well enough to even feel proper jealousy.
In that sense, he and the guard might’ve made a good pair.

“Are you planning to ride with me?”

I nodded toward the horse in question as Ricardo climbed into the carriage beside me.

“By now, every thug in the old quarter probably knows you came here alone. And that guy—who’s worse than a flea-bitten horse—would be the first to run if anything happened.”

“That’s not true!”

“Did I ask?”

“…Sorry.”

The guard’s courage deflated immediately.
Still, he must’ve clung to a sliver of hope, because he gave Ricardo a look of pure admiration—one that completely backfired.

“If you want to keep those eyes of yours intact, I suggest you look somewhere else.”

I let Ricardo stay. At this point, it would’ve been more awkward to kick him out.

“Does crime really happen here even during the day?”

“In the old quarter, time of day doesn’t matter. If you’d told me where you were going, I would’ve arranged better protection than that guy.”

“Don’t be mean. He does admire you.”

Ricardo’s expression darkened. If we hadn’t needed someone to drive the carriage, he looked ready to toss the poor man out right then and there.

“You know perfectly well what it feels like to admire someone.”

“I’m removing this entire event from the anecdote collection I’m compiling. Consider yourself lucky. If someone even crazier than me had been doing this, they would’ve recorded every ridiculous word of this conversation—and passed it on to future generations to read.”

That was anything but lucky.
The fact that Ricardo was compiling my anecdotes at all was the furthest thing from fortunate.

“That’s a joke, right?”

“What is?”

“The… whole… that.”

Just then, the carriage gave a sudden jolt.
Ricardo instinctively pulled me close, shielding me in his arms.

Was it an attack?

The answer came almost immediately.

“Lady Cecilia.”

A well-dressed man tapped on the carriage window.

“My mistress would like to invite you to join her.”

“Your mistress?”

He smiled.

“The Duchess of Bastian.”

Ricardo’s arm tightened around my waist. He was tense. Rightfully so.

The Duchess of Bastian—she was the one who had convinced the Duke to make Ricardo the Marquis’ heir.

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