Chapter 187: "Why Didn’t Anyone"

Before anyone in the auditorium could fully comprehend what they were seeing — or even understand what was happening — the men on the screen were already moving.

One seized the young woman’s hair and slammed his hardened cock into her mouth.

Another grabbed her hips and drove his own erection deep between her folds from behind, immediately pounding into her with brutal force.

The remaining men didn’t merely stand by and watch. They crowded onto the bed, hands reaching for her breasts, her face, her body, grabbing and groping wherever they could.

Obscene sounds poured from the speakers and echoed through the grand auditorium: desperate moans, satisfied groans, and the wet slap of skin against skin.

For as long as the video played, the entire audience seemed to forget how to breathe.

Mouths hung open.

Eyes widened.

Journalists who had spent years covering Borgata’s ugliest scandals stared at the screen in stunned disbelief.

None of them was able to reconcile the polished press conference they had expected with the pornography now playing across an enormous LED display.

The scandalous footage didn’t stop there.

The image abruptly changed, cutting to another scene.

This time, Ariana Lombardi could be seen stumbling through a crowded VIP booth. She was laughing with wild, manic abandon, her movements loose and unsteady, looking thoroughly intoxicated or drugged.

Among those still frozen by the shock of the footage, Jordan was one of the first to recover.

Pain twisted across his face as he stared at the broken young woman on the screen.

Deep, visceral pain.

His grip tightened around Biscuit, and the sudden movement sent a vicious stab through his injured shoulder. The stitches felt as though they might tear open beneath the strain, but he forced himself to endure it.

His furious gaze snapped toward Jeremiah.

For one savage instant, Jordan wanted nothing more than to cross the distance between them, seize the blond bastard by the collar, and demand what kind of sick fucking joke he thought this was.

But when Jordan turned, the anger inside him faltered.

Jeremiah looked horrified.

There was no charming smile left on his face — no theatrical amusement, no elegant composure.

His eyes were fixed on the screen, wide with genuine shock, his entire body rigid as though he’d been struck by the same revelation as everyone else.

Jordan’s stomach sank.

’Fuck.’

’Is this sick joke just some fucking technical error?’

Jordan’s eyes immediately dropped toward the nearest chair. For half a second, he considered grabbing it and hurling it at the screen.

Unfortunately, his shoulder was nowhere near healed. So he abandoned the idea entirely, carefully placed Biscuit onto the chair beside him, then surged to his feet.

His voice exploded across the backstage area.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE ALL OF YOU STANDING THERE FOR? TURN OFF THE GODDAMN SCREEN!"

Jordan’s shout finally shattered the paralysis gripping the staff. Several people jolted into motion at once, Marco among them.

The manager spun toward the nearest crew members and barked orders, his voice cracking through the chaos.

"Where’s the fucking plug?! Where’s the power switch?! Power off the LED screen! Now!"

The backstage area erupted into frantic motion.

Staff scattered in every direction, scrambling like a disturbed hive as they searched for the controls.

Marco quickly spotted Lucilla standing near the corner of the room, her face arranged in what appeared to be stunned horror.

"Lady Lucilla!" Marco rushed toward her. "You’re on the line with your staff in the production booth, aren’t you? Tell them to switch to something else immediately! Anything else!"

Lucilla’s horrified expression seemed to crumble further, as though she’d only just remembered that she was supposed to be in charge.

"Oh God!" she exclaimed, pressing a hand against her chest. "Yes, of course! Yes! I’ll handle it right away!"

Marco felt an instant flicker of relief.

"Good! Please do something about it. I’ll have another team head for the power room!"

Marco turned and hurried away, several staff members following close behind.

Lucilla watched them disappear, panic still perfectly arranged across her features.

The instant nobody was looking directly at her, however, the faintest trace of triumph curled at the corner of her lips.

"You heard that?" she murmured into the headset. "Make sure you lock the production room. Nobody gets inside, and nobody touches the power switch. Do whatever you have to do to keep that screen running."

Inside the production booth, the technician glanced toward the already locked door.

Several additional staff members were moving into position, preparing to keep anyone from forcing their way inside.

"Already on it, Lady Lucilla," he replied. "No one’s interfering with the screen without our permission."

Satisfaction deepened Lucilla’s smile.

She suppressed it almost immediately, restoring the horrified expression to her face.

Then she turned toward her crew and began barking orders, looking every inch the media queen desperately trying to control a crisis spiraling beyond her grasp.

Under her direction, the chaos backstage only intensified.

So did the chaos in the auditorium.

The video continued playing, cutting from one scandalous drugged recording to another sex tape before anyone could stop it.

Onstage, Nico Baldi leaned back in his chair, openly amused as he watched the naked figures on the screen.

After several seconds, he abruptly leaned toward the microphone on the table and shouted,

"Is this who I’m fighting next week?! Looks like she’s already knocked out!"

The remark sent another ripple through the auditorium.

Below the stage, the reporters and photographers had finally recovered from their initial shock.

Voices erupted from every direction as journalists shouted over one another, desperate to be the first to extract a statement from the woman at the center of the scandal.

"Ariana, over here!"

"How often do you host gangbangs like that?!"

"Who filmed those sex tapes?!"

"How do you expect anyone to take you seriously as a fighter with videos like those floating around?"

At the center of the stage, Aren wasn’t answering.

She remained with her back to the crowd, staring at the footage in stunned silence.

The young woman on the screen was not her.

Aren herself had never participated in any of those acts, nor had she endured any of the horrifying things being displayed before her.

By any rational measure, she should have felt nothing more than the ordinary human discomfort that came from witnessing something so disturbing.

And yet, something about it still struck a painful chord inside her.

She had grown accustomed to seeing Ariana’s face in the mirror every morning while brushing her teeth.

She had grown accustomed to smiling at that reflection and, in quieter moments, thanking the young woman for somehow lending her this body — for allowing her to keep living.

Without realizing it, Aren had come to cherish this body.

Now, seeing its former owner humiliated like this, seeing one of the darkest moments of Ariana’s life recorded and displayed for strangers to watch, judge, and ridicule, made something inside Aren twist painfully.

Her fists slowly curled at her sides as anger began to overtake the shock.

’Why did she have to live her life like this?!’

’Why didn’t anyone help her?!’

’But more importantly...’

Her eyes narrowed at the screen.

’How did anyone even get their hands on these videos?’