Chapter 175: "How Was The Food?"

Aren’s nimble fingers worked their way through the knots of the cloth bundle, carefully loosening each fold until the container inside was revealed.

She lifted the lid and arranged everything neatly in front of Isidore.

"This is all for you, Master Accardi," she announced proudly. "I’ve already had dinner before I came, so please enjoy!"

Isidore stared down at the food without blinking.

Several pieces of beef floated among potatoes chopped into wildly uneven shapes and sizes.

Some had nearly fallen apart, while others were thick enough to resemble small stones.

The broth itself was cloudy and brown rather than the clear, polished soup he was accustomed to seeing, and a faint sheen of oil shimmered across its surface.

’Is she certain this is edible?’

"It looks like a wartime ration," he observed flatly. "The sort served in a tin."

Aren’s expression crumpled with embarrassment.

"I... I’ll try to improve the presentation next time."

Then another concern occurred to her, and she glanced around the library.

"But... is it really all right to eat in here? I don’t think Mrs. Cabrera would be very happy about it."

"The Cabrera family works for House Accardi," Isidore replied evenly. "She’s known me since I was young. She’s let me eat in here plenty of times. She won’t object today."

The answer immediately conjured an image in Aren’s mind.

A much younger Isidore.

Perhaps sitting in this very library with books piled around him, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading.

Maybe he had even lain on the floor with a book held above his head, because he had been too engrossed to bother sitting properly.

’He must have been so cute.’

The thought struck her so suddenly that warmth rushed into her cheeks. She quickly turned toward the bookshelves, pretending to be fascinated by the titles there.

Across the table, Isidore finally reached for the spoon she had prepared for him.

He stared at the stew for several more seconds, and then, with the solemnity of a man approaching an uncertain scientific experiment, lifted the spoon.

’If life gave me this supposedly brilliant brain, it should at least protect me from food poisoning.’

His expression remained perfectly impassive as he dipped the spoon into the broth, deliberately taking only the liquid at first.

He brought it to his lips and tasted it, then waited.

Nothing happened.

No immediate regret. No strange aftertaste.

After another few seconds, he dipped the spoon in again, this time scooping up a piece of potato and a small piece of beef.

The moment he began chewing, however, his eyes widened.

The appearance of the dish had suggested one thing. The taste suggested something else entirely.

As the youngest son of one of the wealthiest families among the Ten Houses, Isidore had grown up surrounded by the finest food money could buy.

From childhood onward, he had been exposed to delicate sauces, expensive ingredients, and flavors refined down to the smallest detail.

This was none of those things.

It was rich and earthy, heavy with spices and warmth.

It tasted like food made by people who couldn’t afford to waste anything, people who had learned to turn inexpensive ingredients into something nourishing because they had no other choice.

And yet, beneath all of that hardship, there was something comforting.

Something that made a person feel, if only for a moment, that perhaps things would be all right.

For one long moment, he simply chewed, his attention drifting somewhere far beyond the library.

He couldn’t remember the last time a meal had made him stop and think about the person who prepared it.

Across from him, Aren was secretly watching.

Her gaze kept darting toward him despite her attempts to pretend otherwise.

She was waiting for some sign, some flicker of expression that would tell her whether he liked what she had made, yet his face remained as unreadable as ever.

At last, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, she gathered her courage.

"Master Accardi..." Her voice was tentative. "How is it?"

Isidore paused only long enough to answer.

"It’s good."

Aren’s entire face brightened.

"Really?" she asked eagerly. "It’s not bad?"

Isidore offered no further explanation. He simply took another bite, then another, before finally asking,

"What else can you make?"

"I can make stew with goat, mutton, or lentils," she answered proudly. "If you like skewers, I can make those too. I’ve also been learning how to bake, but... I’ve had very little success until recently."

Then she suddenly remembered something else.

"Oh! But my ice cream has received a lot of positive feedback. I’m actually launching a new collection this Sunday at the Lombardi Hotel. Would you like to come and try it?"

Isidore looked up briefly.

"Sunday?"

"Six in the evening. We’re serving the ice cream as part of the full-course menu, but I promise it’ll be completely free for you. You’ve helped me so much with preparing for Thursday’s interview."

Isidore, naturally, cared very little about the free meal.

"I have a meeting around then," he replied simply.

The brightness in Aren’s expression dimmed.

"Oh..."

Disappointment softened her features, but she quickly replaced it with a small smile.

"Well... if anything changes with your schedule, just let me know. I’ll reserve a table for you."

The dinner break continued with Aren enthusiastically describing the different ice-cream flavors that would be served at the Lombardi Hotel that Sunday.

Isidore merely listened in silence. He naturally disliked talking while eating, so he made no comment.

Occasionally, however, he lifted his gaze from the container to the bright smile across the table before quietly lowering it again.

Once the meal was finished, however, Aren had no chance of escaping her reading assignment.

Stack after stack of books accumulated on the table between them, gradually forming an imposing wall.

Isidore repeatedly disappeared between the shelves, returning each time with another collection of books whenever he decided the material in front of her was insufficient.

Two long hours passed.

By the end of them, Aren’s concentration had begun to crumble beneath the weight of endless reading.

When Isidore returned from yet another trip between the shelves, he found her already asleep.

His steps stopped immediately.

Her head rested against an open book, one cheek pressed against the page while her eyes remained firmly closed.

Her breathing was slow and even, her entire body relaxed as though she had fallen into a deep sleep rather than merely dozed off.

Isidore stared at her for several seconds.

It had taken him less than five minutes to leave, collect the books, and return.

’How can she possibly fall asleep in the middle of a library like this?’

’What if I hadn’t asked Mrs. Cabrera to clear the entire library for this meeting?’

The thought brought a faint flicker of irritation.

Despite that irritation, he approached the table without making a sound.

When he came to a stop beside her, he extended one finger and gently poked her cheek.

"Hey."

Nothing.

He poked her again, applying slightly more pressure this time.

"Signorina."

Still nothing.

Her lips parted faintly beneath the pressure, and her breathing deepened as she shifted against the book.

Isidore withdrew his finger and released another quiet sigh.

’Good thing I had no intention of taking her to a hotel today.’

Almost unconsciously, his hand lifted and hovered above her head for a moment, before descending gently onto her hair.

The strands were soft beneath his fingers.

Warmth radiated from her forehead into his palm, and for one inexplicable moment, he simply remained there, neither moving nor speaking.

Until the thought struck him.

’...What am I doing?’

His hand withdrew immediately.

Silently, he placed the books he had been carrying onto the table, then removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over Aren’s shoulders, taking care not to disturb her.

Aren didn’t wake.

Apparently, nothing short of an earthquake would have managed that.

With a resigned shake of his head, he turned and walked toward the staircase.

Downstairs, Mrs. Cabrera looked up the moment she heard his footsteps approaching.

"Oh, Isidore?" she asked. "You’re finally finished?"

Her eyes widened when she noticed the absence of his jacket, then narrowed with curiosity.

"Did you accept the young lady’s dinner?"

Isidore ignored the question entirely. He adjusted one of his cuffs and spoke in his usual flat, businesslike tone.

"Go down to the basement and tell your team to accelerate the file decryption. We need to know exactly how much information House Ombra has obtained about House Accardi before we decide our next move."

Mrs. Cabrera was visibly displeased that she received none of the information she’d actually wanted.

But after knowing Isidore since he’d been too young to read even a single word, she understood that his refusal to answer was often an answer in itself.

"How was the food?" she asked, her tone deliberately teasing. "Was it good?"

Isidore fixed her with a flat stare.

"Are you even listening?"

"Of course I am!" Mrs. Cabrera replied instantly, adopting the tone of a grandmother scolding an insolent grandson. "I’m mentally recording every word you say with perfect precision. What else do you need from me?"

Isidore met her raised voice with complete composure.

"Lower the lights upstairs. Keep them dim. Then increase the heat slightly."

Mrs. Cabrera looked puzzled.

"I don’t see how either of those tasks relates to the first one."

"Just do it," he said simply, already walking toward the entrance.

Then, as though remembering something, he glanced back over his shoulder.

"And the next time you’re on one of those gossip calls with my mother, Mrs. Cabrera, tell her I’m not coming home for dinner this Sunday."