Chapter 180: "My Star Is Here"

The Grand Imperial Opera House.

Bellini District.

9:00 AM, Thursday.

Almost every reporter arriving that morning had the same reaction the moment they stepped out of their cars.

For several seconds, many simply stood on the pavement and stared upward.

The Grand Imperial Opera House towered above them in a magnificent sweep of towering columns and vast arched windows, its pale façade blazing beneath the morning sun.

It was one of Borgata’s most recognizable landmarks — a venue reserved for world-renowned performers and the kind of cultural events people discussed for years afterward.

And today, somehow, it was hosting a press conference for a newly signed underground fighter.

Naturally, nobody understood it.

Then again, Ariana Lombardi was hardly an ordinary underground fighter.

She had been signed by the Castellano Club, which was managed by Jeremiah Castellano himself — a man whose extravagant tastes were nearly as infamous as his name.

Under those circumstances, perhaps renting one of the most prestigious buildings in the city for a simple press conference was, by Castellano standards, almost disappointingly restrained.

That conclusion lasted only until the reporters entered the opera house.

Inside, the Grand Imperial had been transformed into something between an aristocratic wedding, a luxury fashion exhibition, and the fever dream of a wealthy young man with absolutely no concept of moderation.

And everywhere—

White peonies.

Thousands of them.

They lined the foyers, framed the sweeping staircases, surrounded the bars, and spilled from enormous arrangements positioned at nearly every turn.

Their fragrance hung thickly in the air — sweet and so overwhelming that several reporters began to worry that prolonged exposure might eventually induce a headache.

Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion about the flowers.

Everyone, apparently, except Jeremiah Castellano.

The host of the event stood beside one of the longest floral arrangements, slowly examining it from one end to another with the solemn concentration of a man inspecting a priceless work of art.

A gentle smile rested on his beautiful face, somehow making his already angelic features appear even more striking against the sea of white blossoms surrounding him.

"Wow," he murmured appreciatively, bending toward the flowers to inhale their fragrance. "This arrangement is absolutely beautiful, isn’t it?"

The florist standing beside him nearly forgot how to breathe.

The sight of Jeremiah Castellano admiring flowers was apparently more beauty than her nervous system had been designed to withstand.

"I’m very glad you enjoy them, Mister Castellano," she replied.

Her eyes fixed on him with barely concealed admiration, but that admiration lasted only until her gaze started drifting across the overwhelming abundance of white surrounding them.

"Though..." she added, uncertainty slipping into her voice, "I must say, this is certainly one of the more... distinctive installations I’ve worked on."

Jeremiah appeared not to notice the subtle emphasis at all.

"Believe me, darling."

He sighed softly.

"I only do distinctive."

When he finally turned toward her, the smile on his face remained perfectly lovely.

His eyes did not.

"Except..." he continued pleasantly, "there appears to be one tiny mistake that has somehow managed to make the entire arrangement look like absolute garbage."

The florist froze.

A cold shiver traveled down her spine.

There was something profoundly unsettling about being insulted by a man who looked as though he ought to have been painted onto the ceiling of a cathedral.

She hurriedly examined the flowers he had been studying.

Everything appeared flawless.

The peonies were pristine. There were no browned edges, no discoloration, no damaged stems. The arrangement matched the others almost perfectly.

Her brow slowly furrowed.

"Um... I’m terribly sorry, Mister Castellano, but I’m not entirely sure which mistake you’re referring to."

Jeremiah immediately pressed the back of one manicured hand to his forehead and released a deeply regretful sigh.

"Oh, dear. Perhaps this profession simply isn’t suitable for you."

The florist’s stomach dropped.

Her face went pale.

Jeremiah smiled sympathetically, his expression brightening with helpful enthusiasm.

"Would you like me to help you find another line of work? Something more appropriate for your particular talents? I could have a list of recommendations prepared for you by tomorrow morning."

Each word was spoken softly.

Each one struck like lightning.

The florist barely had time to formulate an apology before Jeremiah looked around the foyer as though searching for something — or someone.

"Ah," he said suddenly, his expression brightening. "There she is."

He turned back toward the florist with a dazzling smile.

"That’s your manager, isn’t it? Wait here for just a moment, darling. I’ll explain everything to her myself. You don’t have to worry."

The florist immediately descended into panic. She clasped her hands together, her face stricken with terror.

"No! No, sir — Mister Jeremiah, please! Please don’t tell my manager! I beg you! Could you at least explain what mistake I made first?"

Jeremiah stared down at her.

For several seconds, he looked genuinely sympathetic.

"Ah, it really is difficult, isn’t it?" He patted her shoulder with soothing concern. "Fine. Since I’m in a good mood today, I suppose I don’t mind explaining."

Turning back toward the arrangement, he lifted one elegant finger and pointed toward a single peony.

"There. Do you see this flower right here?"

The florist leaned forward and stared.

The flower looked exactly like every other peony in the arrangement.

Jeremiah’s smile never wavered.

"It’s tilted perhaps five degrees to the left compared to the others."

The florist stared harder.

Before she could process what she’d just heard, Jeremiah had already reached forward and delicately adjusted the offending flower by a fraction.

"There," he said. "Let me fix it for you."

He stepped back to admire his work.

"Perfect."

Then he turned toward her with the affectionate expression of a senior offering valuable advice to a promising junior.

"Consistency is crucial, darling. You have no idea how easily the smallest details can turn a spectacle into a complete disappointment. Focus better next time, will you?"

"Yes! Yes, of course, sir!" The florist bowed so quickly she nearly lost her balance. "I’ll check the other arrangements immediately! I’ll make sure not a single flower is out of place!"

She fled before Jeremiah could offer any further guidance.

Nearby, Marco had witnessed the entire exchange while calmly enjoying a butter croissant. Only after the florist had disappeared into the distance did he finally clear his throat.

"Ahem. Young Boss."

Jeremiah turned toward him.

"Do you really have to terrorize the poor girl?" Marco asked cautiously. "She looked frightened enough to hand in her resignation by tomorrow."

"Terrorize?" Jeremiah repeated, looking offended by the accusation. "What a dreadful thing to say. I believe I’m still considerably saintlier than certain stories I’ve heard about our dear Ariana."

He flicked a dismissive hand before turning back toward the flowers, examining the arrangement from another angle.

"Besides, I didn’t spend one hundred thousand dollars on this event so that minor mistakes could ruin the atmosphere. What if our dear Ariana walks in, takes one look at the decorations, decides they look sloppy, and refuses to come onto the stage?"

Suddenly, a third voice cut into the conversation — rough, loud, and dripping with incredulous mockery.

"A hundred grand? Gods, Young Boss. You really do favor this lady, don’t you? Wish you’d poured that much money into my debut press conference."

Jeremiah and Marco turned to see Nico Baldi approaching in long, broad strides.

As the man scheduled to face Ariana Lombardi in her debut match, Nico Baldi was difficult to mistake for anyone else.

He was enormous — built less like a man than a refrigerator with a bad temper. His shirt hung open without a single button fastened, exposing a heavily scarred chest and torso covered in tattoos.

He stopped beside one of the floral arrangements and carelessly flicked a hand toward the delicate peonies.

"But seriously, Young Boss..."

He laughed.

"I still don’t understand what the hell you were thinking when you paired me with that tiny woman. Can you imagine how ridiculous she’ll look next to me? At best, she probably reaches my chest."

Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed by the slightest fraction, lingering for one dangerous second on the flowers Nico had nearly touched. But then, just as quickly, the tension vanished, replaced by an even brighter smile.

"Wouldn’t that make it an easy match for you, then, Nico?" he purred. "You could probably snap her neck with a flick of your hand."

His voice softened further.

"Unless, of course... you’re afraid of losing to such a small lady."

Nico scoffed so loudly that several nearby staff members glanced in their direction.

"Me? Seventeen consecutive wins, and I’m supposed to be afraid of some pretty little social-media girl?"

He slapped a hand against his chest.

"I’m telling you now, Young Boss. If I lose, I’m retiring from this career for life. But if I win..." He pointed directly at Jeremiah with a broad, challenging smirk. "I expect a bonus for the next fight night. You hear me?"

Without waiting for an answer, Nico turned, snatched a canapé from the tray of a passing server, and waved lazily over his shoulder.

"See you onstage, Young Boss. Nice suit, by the way."

Neither Jeremiah nor Marco bothered to say goodbye.

They simply watched as Nico disappeared toward the backstage area with the same aggressive stride he’d arrived with.

Jeremiah was just beginning to turn toward Marco, prepared to explain that Nico’s comment about his suit had been entirely unnecessary because he only ever wore excellent suits, when another voice interrupted them from the side.

This one was feminine and melodious enough that they both recognized it immediately.

"Still aggressive as ever, isn’t he? No wonder your audience loves him so much."

Jeremiah turned.

Lucilla Bellini approached through the foyer to the sharp, deliberate click of her heels.

Her fiery ginger hair was as striking as ever, cascading down a gown so extravagant that she looked far more like the morning’s main attraction than the woman supposedly responsible for media production.

Behind her followed a small procession of men and women dressed in backstage uniforms, moving with the quiet efficiency of staff who had learned to keep pace with her.

Jeremiah’s irritation surfaced.

He had hired Lucilla’s media company to handle the broadcasting and promotional work — not to parade around the Grand Imperial Opera House as though she were an honored guest.

Still, Lucilla was considerably more valuable to him beyond the scope of this particular press conference. His annoyance vanished behind a dazzling smile so quickly it might never have existed at all.

"Ah, Lucilla, darling." His voice turned sweet enough to rot teeth. "How do you like the setup? Is everything sufficiently suited to your tastes?"

Lucilla replied with precisely the same sweetness.

"Anything touched by your hand is automatically suited to my taste, Jeremiah dear."

She placed a hand dramatically over her chest.

"Though I must confess, I’m the one wondering whether you’re pleased with the promotion my team has done. Those promotional videos took an entire week of work. Please tell me you’ve watched them."

Jeremiah smiled.

"Oh, darling, of course I have."

He had, unfortunately, watched them.

Although he hadn’t enjoyed a second of it, his expression suggested he had been profoundly moved.

"Absolute cinema," he said smoothly. "Exactly how I like it."

Lucilla’s face brightened with relief.

"I’m so glad to hear that."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice as though preparing to share a secret.

"Though, Jeremiah... there’s something else that might please you just as much as my production work. I’m hosting an art exhibition on behalf of House Bellini two weeks from now."

"Oh?" Jeremiah’s expression transformed into one of polite interest. "An art exhibition? I assume there’ll be an auction as well?"

"Of course." She smiled knowingly. "An auction, fine art, fine wine — all the things you and I enjoy. But the venue is the Prism Fine Art Gallery this time. Does that sound interesting enough to tempt you?

Jeremiah could practically hear boredom screaming inside his head.

He had lost count of the number of art exhibitions Lucilla had invited him to over the years. No matter how much money House Bellini spent, none of them had ever quite managed to meet his standards.

Still, there was no reason to tell her that.

"Ah... that is truly something that interests me." He tilted his head as though consulting his mental schedule. "But let’s see... two weeks from now... ah, I’m afraid my schedule may be rather tight around—"

His sentence died on its own.

A subtle disturbance had spread through the foyer.

Reporters were beginning to speak over one another. Photographers shifted position. The low hum of conversation sharpened into a wave of anticipation.

Jeremiah’s attention snapped toward the entrance.

And there she was.

Ariana Lombardi.

She had just entered the far end of the Grand Imperial Opera House, surrounded by reporters and photographers.

Recognition lit Jeremiah’s face.

’Ah, finally... my star is here.’

His expression then brightened even further, because beside her walked a brown-haired young man in a neat suit, one arm secured tightly in a sling.

’Well, well.’

’Who do we have here?’

His amusement lasted precisely three seconds until his gaze dropped to what that young man was carrying with his free arm.

An ugly golden retriever.

Jeremiah’s eyes widened.

’That dog is coming too?’

The memory of Biscuit sneezing directly into his face was still vivid enough to haunt him.

His eyes instantly shifted toward the thousands of flowers surrounding them, then toward the air-conditioning vents, then back to the dog.

’Would that dog sneeze in my face again because of all these flowers and the air conditioning?’

Five seconds passed in grave consideration before Jeremiah reached a decision.

’I suppose I’m about to find out.’

A warm smile slipped back onto his face as he turned toward Lucilla and her production crew.

"Ah, it appears my main event has finally arrived."

Then, with a sudden flourish, he reached into the nearest arrangement, plucked a large white peony from among the others, and lowered himself into an elegant gentleman’s bow toward everyone present.

"Excuse me for a moment, Lady Lucilla. I have to go welcome the star of the day."