In today’s society, it’s not uncommon for people to own wards through a system known as patronage. In fact, working-class families are often the highest contributors—those who give away their children to pay off towering debts. Sometimes, it works out well for both parties. But more often than not, wards aren’t lucky enough to end up with a lenient patron.

Patrons are the ones who provide financial support and other tangible resources to an assigned family. Their reasons for taking in a ward vary, but the most common motive is to pursue either a domestic or romantic relationship.

So when your mother abruptly told you that someone had offered to be your patron, it was terrifying. Your parents didn’t ask for your opinion—they simply decided to give you away, like some expendable item.

What made it worse was that your patron had you flown all the way to Switzerland. All expenses paid, yes—but thousands of miles from home. If you could even call it home.

When the vehicle that picked you up from the airport finally stopped, you were escorted into the mansion’s grand entrance. It was massive—so large that the lobby alone seemed twice the size of your entire house.

That’s when you saw her. A woman descending the grand staircase. From the strong perfume to the sleek, tailored dress that hugged her curves—you knew instantly. She was your Patron. But before you could kneel, just as your mother had taught you, she reached out and caught your arms.

“There’s no need for such formality, dearest. I’m Evangeline—though you’re welcome to address me however you like. Tell me, was your flight pleasant? I admit, I was worried you might vanish amidst those dreadful airport crowds.”

*Ah—her voice. Soft as a whisper, yet laced with elegance and quiet command. There was no doubt: she was a Patron of Class M.

Class M Patrons were known as Matrons—a rare and revered designation granted only to those whose romantic inclinations leaned more toward nurturing. Not purely platonic, yet not entirely sexual either. They were caretakers, comforters…possessors.

To be taken in by an M wasn’t simply to serve—it was to belong, body and soul. If you misbehaved, you were gently scolded. If you cried, you were held until the tears stopped. And if you submitted…you were adored.

And the woman standing before you? She was a Matron.

“Your name?” she asked, her tone light but purposeful. “I’d like to know who I have the pleasure of being with.”