Chapter 186: "Roll It For Him, Darling"

Jeremiah Castellano had a very specific effect wherever he went.

Eyes were drawn to him as naturally as bees to flowers, and the moment he stepped onto the stage, he could feel that effect rippling through the auditorium.

Conversations dwindled.

Heads turned.

Cameras rose.

By the time he reached the polished brass microphone stand at center stage, he had the full attention of the room.

He wrapped one hand around the gleaming brass, leaned casually toward the microphone, and, in the same soothing voice that had charmed countless people before him, began the introduction.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen of the press and fight enthusiasts. Thank you for joining us this morning at the Grand Imperial."

"Allow me to begin the announcement ceremony for the Castellano Club’s greatest fight match in its history — taking place next Saturday."

The effect was immediate.

Cheers thundered from the fan sections, while reporters raised their cameras, the rapid-fire flashes turning the stage into a storm of white light.

Jeremiah absorbed every second of it.

He was born for this.

There was no point denying it. Moments like this only confirmed what he had always known.

When the uproar finally subsided enough for his voice to carry without effort, he leaned toward the microphone once more.

"All of you who have come to know the Castellano Club already understand that we don’t simply host fights — we cultivate spectacle. We find raw, lethal talent, and we give them the arena they deserve."

"And next Saturday night, we’re delivering a main card that will set a new standard for this city."

With a graceful sweep of his hand, the enormous LED screen behind him changed.

The promotional graphics vanished, replaced by an imposing image of the first fighter.

"First, we have a man who needs very little introduction to anyone who follows true bloodsports."

"Coming off seventeen consecutive savage victories under our banner, he is widely considered one of the most terrifying strikers in the district..."

Jeremiah turned toward the left side of the stage and extended an inviting hand.

"Please welcome to the stage — Nico ’The Apex Predator’ Baldi!"

Nico immediately emerged from backstage with broad, confident strides, smirking as though the outcome of the fight had already been decided.

"Come on, you losers!" Nico roared. "Make some goddamn noise for the king!"

His trainer followed close behind, while a promotional video began playing across the enormous screen.

It showcased Nico’s brutal victories in rapid succession: opponents folding beneath vicious inside knees, the crowd roaring from the stands, Nico bellowing triumphantly inside the cage.

As the footage played, Jeremiah continued speaking over it.

"The Apex Predator has wiped out every veteran contender we’ve put in front of him."

"And believe me when I tell you this — there isn’t a person alive in this city who can trade blows with him and walk out on their own two feet."

The crowd erupted again.

Nico seemed determined to milk every second of it.

"You hear that?!" he yelled, pounding his fist against his chest. "There isn’t a man breathing who can touch me! Stop wasting your money on contenders! Just give me the belt and save yourselves the funeral costs!"

He prowled across the stage from one side to the other, throwing up two-finger salutes whenever another cluster of cameras flashed in his direction.

Jeremiah watched with a pleasant smile, patiently allowing the fool his moment.

’Ah... I’d pay a hundred grand to see this fella carried out on a stretcher one day.’

He had long since grown bored of watching Nico perform the same aggressive routine, but there was no reason to interrupt a spectacle while it was driving up his net worth.

Every so often, however, Jeremiah’s gaze drifted toward the opposite side of the stage — and whenever it did, amusement glimmered openly in his eyes.

Aren caught him looking at her easily.

She stood near the edge of the stage stairs, waiting for her turn.

For a moment, their gazes met across the distance, and almost immediately, that angelic smile of his stirred something uneasy inside her.

She still couldn’t figure Jeremiah out.

One moment, he could be charming and absurdly generous.

The next, something cold and calculating would flash behind his eyes, only to disappear without a trace.

She had no idea what he was thinking half the time, and she wasn’t sure whether trying to uncover those hidden layers was wise — or even safe.

Yet, there was gratitude there, too.

She genuinely liked this white dress.

That only made her feelings more complicated.

At last, Nico seemed satisfied with the attention he’d received.

He moved toward his designated seat at the left side of the panel table, his trainer taking the chair beside him.

Jeremiah smiled pleasantly, relieved that the arrogant bastard had finally settled down, and raised the microphone once more.

"To test an apex predator, perhaps it takes not more brute force, but a touch more elegance."

"Today, the Castellano Club is proud to officially announce the signing of an extraordinary new contender — one who could change the underground landscape forever."

His gaze shifted toward the right side of the stage, lingering fondly on Aren.

"Ladies and gentlemen, making her official debut under our banner next Saturday night..."

"Please welcome to the stage — Ariana ’The Swan Queen’ Lombardi!"

Aren’s eyes widened, confusion and shock warring across her face as she struggled to process what she’d just heard.

’He changed the stage name?’

The surprise lasted only a second before a quiet flush spread across her face.

’The Swan Queen...?’

She had no idea why he had suddenly changed his mind or why he’d chosen this name, but she knew one thing for certain:

She liked it.

Far more than the ridiculous name he’d originally given her.

Jordan, standing beside her, looked equally confused. He turned toward her, but Marco was already hurrying them along with an urgent gesture.

"Come on, Miss Lombardi, Mister Marchetti! What are you waiting for? It’s your turn! Hurry up the stairs!"

Aren finally broke free of her surprise.

She gathered herself, climbed the stairs in hurried steps, and stepped into the limelight, with Jordan following close behind, Biscuit securely cradled in his good arm.

The moment Aren appeared, the auditorium erupted in a barrage of camera flashes and deafening shouts.

The sheer volume of the crowd made her stomach clench.

’This is considerably more people than Chiara Leone’s luncheon...’

’...and more people than the Marchetti Trials, too.’

Her steps unconsciously slowed until Jordan caught up with her.

Walking behind her, he couldn’t see her expression, but he could see the faint tremor running through her shoulders.

He immediately quickened his pace until he reached her, then leaned close enough for his voice to reach her above the din.

"Hey, Ariana, you’re alright?"

Aren’s shoulders jumped slightly at the sound of his voice.

She turned toward him, and the sight of him beside her immediately eased some of the tension coiling in her chest.

"...Yes," she murmured. "I’m fine. I just... I’ve never stood in front of a crowd this large before, so... I’m very nervous."

"It’s okay." Jordan’s voice softened. "I’m here for you. I’ll take my place at the table with Biscuit and wait for you, alright? Go ahead and take the spotlight for your introduction, then come back. We’ll be right behind you."

His reassurance finally coaxed a small smile onto Aren’s face.

"...Thank you, Jordan."

She gave his arm a gentle pat, then turned toward Biscuit, who was staring around with wide, frantic amber eyes, apparently just as overwhelmed by the roar of the crowd as she was.

"Please help me reassure Biscuit, too," she said, rubbing Biscuit gently beneath the chin. "I’ll be back very soon."

With that, she turned and continued toward the center of the stage, while Jordan took his seat at the panel table, Biscuit still securely held in his good arm.

Jeremiah’s smile widened as Aren drew closer.

He stepped away from the microphone and approached her with effortless elegance, one hand extended toward her.

"May I have your hand?"

Aren glanced at his outstretched hand, then at his smile. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his.

"You changed my stage name," she murmured, studying his expression carefully.

Jeremiah closed his fingers around hers and guided her toward the center of the stage, acting as though he hadn’t heard her.

"You look magnificent in this dress. Though there seems to be a little less lipstick on your lips than when I left the room."

A deep flush rushed across Aren’s face.

"I... I didn’t like that heavy red shade, so I dabbed some of it away," she explained, though even to her own ears, the excuse sounded unconvincing.

Jeremiah nodded casually, amusement glinting in his eyes.

"Less lipstick certainly suits this look better."

Before he could make any further comment, Aren hurried to steer the conversation away from the embarrassing subject.

"But, um... what I actually wanted to say is... I wanted to thank you for this backup dress."

Something in Jeremiah’s smile sharpened by the slightest degree.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his eyes linger over her in one long, unreadable assessment, until the two of them reached the center of the stage.

"Don’t thank me too early, darling," he murmured, finally releasing her hand. "For now, simply enjoy the limelight."

With that, he returned to the microphone stand, leaving Aren alone beneath the full force of the stage lights.

Below the stage, the crowd had gone completely wild.

If the swarm of reporters outside had already overwhelmed Aren, this was something else entirely.

It was as though an entire battalion had assembled before her, shouting questions from every direction while cameras flashed relentlessly.

For a moment, she had no idea what to do, despite having practiced this exact moment in front of a mirror hundreds of times.

So she settled for awkward little waves and painfully stiff smiles, desperately hoping she looked enough like the Ariana everyone here expected her to be.

Behind her, Jeremiah leaned toward the microphone once more, his soothing voice carrying across the auditorium.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I believe many of you have already heard rumors about Ariana Lombardi’s arrival in the underground circuit."

"I’m sure many of you have been waiting for the opportunity to have a word with her."

"But before we open the floor to questions from the press..."

"We’ve prepared a brief introductory package to show you exactly why we signed her — and why Nico Baldi should be very, very careful next Saturday."

His eyes shifted toward the backstage area, an expectant smile settling across his face.

"Roll the tape, my friend."

Backstage, Lucilla Bellini wore an equally expectant expression.

A slow, elegant smirk spread across her lips as she spoke sweetly into her headset.

"Roll it for him, darling."

Inside the production booth, the technician already had the video queued on his monitor.

Sweat had gathered along his forehead, but he answered immediately.

"Right away, my lady."

Out in the auditorium, a hush of anticipation swept through the crowd.

Jeremiah ceremoniously gestured toward the enormous LED screen behind him, and naturally, every eye in the auditorium followed his hand.

At the table, Jordan turned around, Biscuit still securely held in his arm.

Nico and his trainer did the same.

Even Aren turned to see what was about to play.

The entire auditorium seemed to hold its breath as the polished background visuals faded away.

The music died next.

When the image finally returned to the LED screen, however, nobody understood what they were seeing.

It wasn’t a polished promotional package.

It looked more like the interior of someone’s bedroom, the footage dim, grainy, and unsteady.

A second later, audio echoed through the auditorium — not a triumphant fight soundtrack, but slurred, hysterical screaming that sounded grotesquely out of place amid the elegant surroundings.

Abruptly, the footage snapped into focus.

The entire auditorium fell dead silent.

The face that appeared on the enormous screen was one everyone recognized.

It belonged to the young woman standing right there at the center of the stage — only an earlier version of her, back when her hair was much longer.

Onscreen, she was flushed and glistening with sweat, lying completely naked across a bed.

She wasn’t alone.

Blurred male figures surrounded her, looking just as naked as she was.