Chapter 185: "The Swan Queen"

If the first outfit had left Jordan stunned for reasons that were deeply embarrassing, the second rendered him completely motionless for an entirely different reason.

This white minidress was unmistakably seductive by design, which, considering Jeremiah had chosen it himself, came as no surprise.

At first glance, it resembled something created for a ballet performance, with a neckline that swept low enough to accentuate Aren’s generous curves, while leaving her shoulders and upper chest bare.

Yet where the previous outfit had seemed deliberately provocative, this one concealed as much as it revealed.

Soft white silk flowed over her figure, while hundreds of delicate feathers adorned the neckline and skirt, veiling much of the exposed skin.

The result was unexpectedly ethereal — a strange combination of innocence and sensuality.

Jordan could do little more than stare.

Aren stood before him looking like the most angelic woman he’d ever seen.

The faint blush warming her cheeks certainly did nothing to help him recover, nor did the way she’d timidly clasped her hands behind her back as she approached him.

She looked genuinely pleased with the dress, but there was still a trace of uncertainty in her expression as she waited for his reaction.

"Jordan?" she asked tentatively. "How do I look?"

Jordan didn’t answer immediately.

He was still staring at her, caught somewhere between admiration and sheer disbelief that anyone could look this beautiful.

Then, abruptly, he shot to his feet and turned toward the assistant, who appeared just as captivated by Aren’s transformation.

"Excuse us," he said, speaking faster than Aren had ever heard him speak. "Could we have a private moment?"

The assistant instantly snapped out of her trance. She dipped her head and practically fled the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

The moment the latch clicked into place, Jordan crossed the room in a few long strides.

His free hand slipped around Aren’s waist and drew her toward him, gentle and careful, as though he were afraid even the slightest careless movement might disturb the delicate beauty of her dress.

The sudden closeness made Aren’s eyes widen.

"Jordan?"

By now, she’d learned what that particular gesture usually meant. More often than not, it was followed by a kiss.

She was right.

Exactly as expected, Jordan lowered his head, and Aren found herself holding her breath before she even realized she’d done so.

Their lips met in a touch as soft as the feathers adorning her dress.

Jordan lingered there for several long seconds, and when he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was so low that it almost sounded shy.

"...You look breathtaking."

The words had barely crossed the tiny space between them, before he leaned in again and pressed another soft kiss to her lips.

The simple compliment deepened the color in Aren’s cheeks until her entire face was flushed.

"I’m glad," she whispered, returning the kiss with one of her own. "I like this outfit much more."

"I like it too."

Jordan drew back just enough to look at her, then brushed his lips gently against her cheek.

"Are you nervous?"

Aren laughed softly at the ticklish warmth of his breath against her skin.

"Honestly... I’m very nervous," she admitted. "But I’ll have you and Biscuit onstage with me, so that makes me feel much less nervous."

She turned toward Biscuit, who had been watching the two of them with wide, excited eyes.

"Right, Biscuit?"

Biscuit answered immediately with an enthusiastic "yip", his tail beginning to wag so rapidly that his entire body seemed to move with it.

The sight drew a quiet laugh from both of them.

Jordan’s arm tightened around Aren for another moment, but when he spoke again, something heavier lay beneath his voice.

"Ariana... there’s something I’d like to ask."

He studied her expression carefully.

"Were you... upset when you found out I used to visit places like the Castellano Club?"

Aren’s brows rose in surprise.

"Why would you think I was?"

Jordan gave a self-deprecating little laugh and shook his head.

"I... I don’t know. It’s just... you looked pretty bewildered earlier when you found out, and I thought... I thought maybe you were upset that I’d known Jeremiah Castellano without telling you."

He looked away for a moment before forcing himself to continue.

"And I... I didn’t want you thinking I’m the same kind of jerk as him."

Aren immediately shook her head, a small chuckle escaping when she finally understood what had been troubling him.

"I was only surprised," she reassured him. "I’ve never thought you and Mister Castellano were alike in any way."

Jordan released a deep breath, feeling the tension drain from his body.

"God, I’m glad."

He drew another slow breath, gathering himself for what he wanted to say next.

These were the words he’d wanted to tell her earlier, back at the entrance, but there had never been enough privacy to say them properly.

"I know I’m not a perfect man, and... I might’ve done some stupid things in the past. But I swear, I don’t care about any of those things anymore."

A nervous smile touched his mouth.

"And even if there are things I’ve done that are even more embarrassing than what you already know..."

He held her gaze, earnest and unwavering.

"Believe me when I say I won’t hide things from you if we’re together. I promise."

The sincerity in his voice left Aren quietly stunned.

He was looking at her with such open affection and conviction that something deep inside her chest tightened.

’Oh, Jordan...’

She wanted desperately to make the same promise.

She wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t hide anything from him either, that whatever secrets she carried would eventually belong to him as well.

But the truth lodged painfully in her throat. She still didn’t know how he might react if he learned everything.

So instead of meeting his gaze, she lowered her eyes.

"...I, um..."

Guilt tightened around her chest.

"...I, uh... want to thank you for defending me earlier," she said at last, forcing a small smile. "If I’d come here alone, I would’ve been so nervous."

The light in Jordan’s eyes dimmed ever so slightly.

He’d noticed the way she avoided his gaze. He’d also noticed that she hadn’t returned his promise.

The disappointment was subtle, but it still found its way beneath his ribs and settled there.

He refused to let it show.

Instead, he stroke the side of her face and offered her a reassuring smile.

"You’re more than welcome."

Aren smiled back.

Her hands slid from his chest down his back, gently caressing the base of his spine.

"Are you ready to go?"

The intimate touch sent another deep flush across Jordan’s face, instantly erasing his earlier disappointment.

"...Yeah," he murmured, though his hand showed no intention of releasing her face anytime soon.

If anything, he drew her a little closer.

"I’ll be ready in another minute," he said, guiding her backward until her shoulders met the wall.

Across the room, Biscuit immediately decided that whatever was about to happen was none of his business.

He promptly shoved his face behind a couch cushion, both paws coming up to cover his eyes, as though determined to grant the two humans some privacy.

His tail, however, remained completely exposed.

It wagged even harder.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Inside the main auditorium, the press and invited fans had settled into plush velvet seats.

Rows of press microphones had been arranged along the seats nearest the stage, while the rear sections were reserved for Ariana’s fans — or, more accurately, the fans Jeremiah had paid generously enough to become her fans, at least for the duration of that morning’s spectacle.

At the center of the stage stood a single brass microphone stand, flanked by two long panel tables fitted with microphones, name placards, and bottles of sponsor-branded water.

Behind them, an enormous LED screen stretched across the rear of the stage, already cycling through polished promotional graphics for the Castellano Club.

Jeremiah stood near the edge of the stage, surveying the magnificent arrangement with undisguised satisfaction.

The grandeur of the opera house, the immaculate staging, the expectant crowd — it all stirred something restless and exhilarated inside him.

"Ah, how I’ve missed this feeling." He sighed contentedly. "Should we start renovating the Pit to look a little more like this retro opera house? The crowd would adore it."

Several steps behind him, Marco carefully cleared his throat.

"Um, Young Boss... you’ve already renovated the Pit twice since you were named heir. I’m not entirely sure the Don would be particularly pleased if you made it three renovations within six years."

"Oh, please." Jeremiah already looked bored by the objection. "My father would be more than happy to sponsor it. Haven’t I tripled the club’s revenue for my dear old man thanks to those little sacrifices?"

Marco, cautious and diligent as ever, found himself no more reassured.

"Still, it might give your elder brothers another reason to complain about you at dinner."

The mention of "elder brothers" caused Jeremiah’s expression to sharpen for the briefest instant.

"Marco," he said, his voice suddenly carrying a warning edge, "I don’t mind losers complaining. It’ll only make them look more pathetic in Father’s eyes."

A chill instantly ran down Marco’s spine.

He knew that look.

He knew exactly what lay beneath Jeremiah’s beautiful face whenever that particular coldness entered his voice.

Yet before Marco could do more than swallow and nod, Jeremiah’s smile had already returned, smooth and effortless, as though the moment had never happened.

"Now, where’s my superstar? Please don’t tell me she’s fussing over the backup outfit as well."

Marco immediately glanced around the auditorium.

A moment later, he spotted Aren emerging from one of the corridors with Jordan beside her, Biscuit trotting faithfully at their heels.

"Oh, there!" Marco called. "I’ve spotted her. She’s coming."

Jeremiah followed Marco’s line of sight.

The moment his eyes landed on Aren—

—every single movement in his body seemed to cease.

Completely.

His eyes widened by the smallest fraction, and for one long, breathless moment, the entire auditorium seemed to fall away.

The voices, the lights, the restless movement of the crowd — all of it dissolved into irrelevance, as his attention narrowed completely onto the woman approaching the stage in the white feathered dress.

Jeremiah had chosen that particular shade of white deliberately.

It matched the pale brilliance of her platinum hair so perfectly that, for a fleeting moment, he felt as though he were looking at the White Swan from the famous ballet he’d watched as a boy.

A quiet swallow worked its way down his throat.

His chest tightened.

Fortunately, nobody noticed.

By the time he had gathered his composure, the charming smile had returned to his lips, polished and flawless, as though the lapse had never happened.

"Marco?"

A slow smile curved across his lips.

"I think I’ve just had a really, really good idea."

Marco snapped his attention back to him.

He knew that phrase far too well — especially when Jeremiah said it in that particular voice, and especially when it was accompanied by that particular curl of his lips.

"And... and..." Marco stammered, already bracing himself. "W-what brilliant idea is it?"

Jeremiah’s smile widened.

"Send a new costume order to our design house, will you?"

Marco looked as though he’d just been struck by lightning. Of all the things he had hoped not to hear, that was precisely the one thing he’d been dreading.

"No way."

Jeremiah either didn’t hear him or simply chose not to acknowledge the objection.

"Replace every single outfit we’ve prepared for Ariana’s schedule at the Pit."

"Mister Castellano—" Marco’s voice rose in desperation as he clapped both hands over his ears. "Stop! Just — for fuck’s sake, for once, just stop!"

Jeremiah continued without mercy, his eyes never leaving Aren as she slowly made her way toward the stage.

"Make sure every one of the new outfits looks exactly like the one she’s wearing now."

Marco dragged a hand down his face.

By the end of the day, he was going to be forced to choose between murdering his employer and submitting his resignation.

"Fine," he muttered through his fingers. "Then what about her stage name? You can’t possibly dress her in this whole ballet-inspired look and still call her ’The Sex Bomb.’ That’s completely at odds with the branding."

Jeremiah flicked one elegant hand, as though the answer were so obvious that it scarcely deserved discussion.

"Of course I’ve already thought of something equally brilliant."

He turned toward the stage and calmly adjusted a strand of his perfectly styled hair.

Then, with one final devastatingly beautiful smile cast over his shoulder, he delivered his verdict.

"Would you go and tell my superstar to get herself ready? It’s about time we introduced ’The Swan Queen’ to all of Borgata — and, eventually, the world beyond it."