After his private conversation with Lord Melbourne, Arthur felt as though he had donned an invisible suit of golden armor.
Scum like Conroy, although still making the occasional petty move like a rat hiding in a sewer, no longer dared to suppress him openly using official power as he had before.
Everyone knew that laying a finger on Arthur now was equivalent to slapping the Prime Minister across the face.
Freed from his greatest external threat, Arthur could finally unleash his full strength and devote himself wholeheartedly to building his commercial empire.
His first move was to spend a large sum of money to purchase a vast piece of cheaply priced land along the River Lea, in London's East End.
Into it he poured, like flowing water, all of his capital and a great amount of low-interest loans secured from the banks.
A completely new industrial district, unprecedented in size, rose from the ground.
Arthur named it Industrial Park.
He did not pile factory buildings together randomly like other factory owners of the time.
Instead, he applied modern planning concepts, clearly dividing the entire park into several major zones:
The raw materials area, next to the dock, allowing easy unloading of cargo ships;
The production area, equipped with the latest steam-powered machinery and tall, bright, well-ventilated workshops;
The storage area, organized with scientific methods for classifying and preserving finished goods;
And even a dedicated workers' area, with dormitories, a canteen, and a small infirmary.
This advanced planning left every visiting businessman speechless.
But what shocked them even more was the production model inside the factory.
In the main sewing machine assembly workshop, Arthur abandoned traditional craftsmanship entirely.
He broke the hundreds of components in a sewing machine down into more than thirty independent assembly steps.
A long assembly line stretched from one end of the workshop to the other.
More than three hundred workers stood on both sides of it, each responsible for an extremely simple action: tightening a screw, installing a gear.
"Assembly line"!
A concept that would become common only in future generations appeared like a miracle from another world in nineteenth-century London.
Workers no longer needed long apprenticeships: a newcomer needed only half a day of training to start immediately.
Productive efficiency increased more than fivefold compared to the old small-workshop model.
The original royal order—one thousand units in four months—was no longer a challenge in Arthur's eyes: at the current pace, he could complete it in just two and a half months.
Besides sewing machines, Arthur did not neglect his main business: soap.
He established an independent chemical plant within the park, using more advanced equipment and processes, and began mass production of various types of cleansing soap.
He produced an inexpensive version for ordinary people and a high-quality version, elegantly packaged and infused with essences imported from France, made specifically for noble ladies.
Within a few months, Arthur's Future Industries had transformed from a small, obscure workshop into a major enterprise with a significant standing in London's light industry.
Machinery, textiles (thanks to sewing machine sales), and chemical products—these three major lines grew simultaneously, while tens of thousands of pounds of profit poured into Arthur's pockets every day.
He was no longer the small businessman who needed Princess Victoria's investment to start his venture.
Now, thanks to his own strength, he had become an undeniable capitalist magnate.
The wealth he controlled already surpassed that of many hereditary earls with ancient castles.
In just a few months, he had achieved a leap of social class that ninety-nine percent of people of that era could never dream of accomplishing in their entire lives.
He became a true legend in London.
When people spoke of him, no one called him "the lucky handsome boy" anymore; they referred to him respectfully as "the new pioneer of industry."
But Arthur knew very well that this was only the beginning.
His goal in building this commercial empire was not merely to make money.
For him, wealth had become only a tool.
He intended to use that tool to achieve a far grander objective: to influence the politics of the nation and the global landscape.
He wanted to forge the strongest, most reliable armor for himself—and for his "business partner" hidden deep within the palace.
Meanwhile, as Arthur's business expanded at lightning speed, his connection with Princess Victoria never ceased.
In fact, the content of their correspondence was undergoing a subtle transformation.
If earlier letters had been largely Arthur giving guidance to Victoria—like a teacher instructing a student—
now their communication had become more equal, and increasingly… personal.
Victoria consulted him on national matters:
"How should we handle the increasingly tense relations with France?"
"What do you think about the future of that place—the United States of America?"
Arthur, with his vision far beyond the nineteenth century, offered deep but accessible analyses of international affairs:
"France is only a small problem; our true opponent is that rising nation called Prussia."
"Do not underestimate the United States of America. Its potential far exceeds what Europeans can imagine. We should draw it closer, not push it away."
These strategic insights quickly elevated Victoria's political perspective.
But more and more, their letters contained matters far removed from politics.
Victoria complained about her mother scolding her over trivialities, or about Conroy staring at her with that detestable expression.
Like an ordinary girl, she confided her frustrations and worries to her only trusted friend.
She eagerly told Arthur what book she had read that day, which concert she had attended, what her favorite color was, and which food she hated most.
And Arthur, in return, displayed all his skill—both modern and ancient—
in applying "how to make a girl fall in love with you."
He was no longer just a pen-friend.
In his letters, he comforted her with gentle, affectionate words:
"Please do not anger yourself over unworthy people.
Soon you will be Queen, and the entire Empire will rely on you to move forward.
Some people are merely obstacles on your long path to the throne; you must step over them gracefully, not stop to quarrel with stones."
He even "wrote" modern love poems—though he was no expert—just to impress her.
For example:
"They say the most beautiful thing in the world is the starry sky.
That is because they have not seen your eyes."
Or:
"Once I tried to use the most magnificent words in the world to describe you,
but when I saw you, I realized every word was inadequate before your beauty."
For a seventeen-year-old girl raised in an oppressive environment, whose emotional world was a blank canvas, these poetic lines—filled with direct, passionate affection—had a power more devastating than a thousand steam engines.
Every time Victoria read these letters, her heart raced and her face flushed.
She hid under her blankets, rereading them a dozen times, her lips curving unconsciously into a smile.
The feelings she held for Arthur—once a mixture of admiration, gratitude, and dependence—were fermenting and transforming.
A sweet yet dangerous vine called "love" was growing silently from the depths of her heart, twisting itself around her entire being.
She could no longer imagine how bleak her life would be without him.
Her dependence on him had taken deep root.
And she was unaware of it.