Chapter 193: "A Private Viewing"

Aren’s eyes were wide with wonder as she stared through the window of the moving car, her attention fixed on everything beyond the glass.

Beside her, Biscuit wore an equally excited expression.

They watched the streets of Bellini District roll past in a blur of gleaming boutiques, glamorous restaurants, and landmarks far more eccentric than anywhere else in Borgata.

The district had always possessed its own peculiar character — wealthy, fashionable, and just strange enough to make even ordinary streets feel like attractions in themselves — or perhaps it simply felt that way to Aren, whose eyes were entirely unused to such lavish sights.

Jordan still hadn’t told her where they were going.

That alone made the outing feel like an adventure.

Every time Aren spotted somewhere particularly interesting, she immediately became convinced that they must be heading there.

"Maybe there?" she murmured to Biscuit at one point, pointing toward a beautifully decorated restaurant.

The car continued straight.

A few minutes later, she spotted a colorful storefront and leaned closer to the window.

"Or maybe there?"

Again, they passed it.

The mystery only made her more excited.

Jordan, unfortunately, wasn’t having nearly as much fun.

The whirlwind of the morning had left him thoroughly exhausted, and the wound in his shoulder was protesting every movement he’d made since leaving the venue.

Eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

With a quiet grimace, he reached into the compartment, retrieved his painkillers, swallowed two pills, and chased them down with a hurried sip of water.

The movement immediately drew Aren’s attention away from the window. She turned toward him, her excitement fading as concern replaced it.

"Jordan, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," he replied immediately, not wanting to worry her. "The pain just started kicking in again, so I figured I’d better take a couple of these. I’ll be all right in a few minutes."

Aren watched the way he tried to maintain his composure — despite the faint sheen of sweat gathering along his temples, and a quiet sigh escaped her.

"Thank you for coming with me today," she said softly. "...Even though you’re still injured."

Jordan caught the guilt in her eyes at once. His free hand reached across the space between them and gave hers a gentle squeeze.

"Hey, Ariana. It’s fine," he reassured her. "Don’t worry about me. It’s just a little throbbing. Nothing serious. Honestly, I’m glad I came with you today. I wouldn’t have wanted you to deal with all that alone."

Aren’s fingers relaxed slightly beneath his, and the small response eased something inside him. But then a trace of hesitation entered his expression.

"Um... there’s something I want to ask you."

Aren leaned closer, giving him her full attention.

"What is it?"

Jordan hesitated.

He wasn’t sure whether he should bring it up now. The morning had already been chaotic enough, and he didn’t want to spoil the first date they’d finally managed to arrange.

But they were dating now.

He’d only intended to get to know her better.

"It’s, uh... it’s about Jeremiah Castellano." He paused, searching for the least awkward way to phrase it. "You’re... you’re actually dating him?"

He braced himself for inevitable awkwardness, yet Aren merely let out a relieved exclamation.

"Oh, that!"

She looked thoroughly grateful that someone had finally brought up the absurdity of Jeremiah’s announcement.

"I’ve never agreed to date him, and he never asked me to," she explained earnestly. "We’ve barely even met outside of a few occasions. Biscuit and I were both completely confused when he claimed that."

As if summoned as supporting evidence, Biscuit sat on Aren’s lap and gave a solemn little nod.

Jordan stared at the pair of them. Their expressions were so serious that, for a moment, he almost forgot about the pain in his shoulder.

What came next was a relief so intense that he wasn’t sure he managed to keep it off his face.

’Oh God.’

’Thank God.’

’Please, God.’

’She can date whoever she wants. Anyone she wants.’

’But please. Just... please, not that crazy fucker.’

"Great!" he blurted out, far too enthusiastically.

The instant the word left his mouth, he knew how terrible it sounded.

"I mean—" He cleared his throat. "Not that I want to pry into your other arrangements or anything. It’s just... I know exactly what kind of jerk he can be. So I really don’t want him anywhere near you."

Aren laughed softly.

"I understand. Honestly, I don’t feel particularly comfortable around him either. I don’t want to spend any more time with him than our contract requires."

That answer reassured Jordan further, yet Aren’s expression soon became thoughtful.

"But..." She tilted her head. "I still don’t understand why he lied to those reporters about dating me."

"I have no idea either." Jordan shook his head. "But from what I’ve seen of him, Jeremiah is unpredictable as hell. You seriously can’t tell what crazy thing he’s going to pull next."

Just thinking about the man made irritation tighten across Jordan’s face.

"My best guess is that he wanted to generate even more attention for Castellano Club and your debut. Your match is already unusual enough to attract plenty of interest. Adding another scandal on top of everything probably doesn’t hurt the amount of publicity he’s getting from it."

Aren nodded slowly.

"I see..."

She tried to make sense of the situation, but the more she thought about it, the more complicated the Castellano contract seemed to become.

When she’d first agreed to fight for the club, she’d imagined a fairly simple arrangement. She would show up, fight, get paid, perhaps enjoy some good food afterward, and then return home.

Somehow, that straightforward plan had already involved scandalous footage, a press-conference disaster, a destroyed LED screen, a bizarre public declaration of a nonexistent relationship, and a man who apparently considered chaos a legitimate business strategy.

’Can’t I just come to the fight club, fight, eat desserts, and go home?’

The sheer unfairness of the situation made her expression grow increasingly miserable. Jordan noticed and gently squeezed her hand again.

"How are you feeling now?"

Aren looked at him, momentarily confused.

"Me?"

A warm smile quickly returned to her face.

"I’m very excited about our date. And I’m really curious about where we’re going, too!"

Jordan couldn’t help laughing at the eagerness in her voice.

"I’m glad you are." His smile lingered for a moment, then faded into something more thoughtful. "But... that’s not what I meant. It’s about... what happened back there at the press conference."

"Oh?" Aren blinked. "What about it?"

"I mean..." He looked down at their joined hands. "I’m sure it must have been difficult for you. Going through all of that... in front of everyone."

Understanding dawned across Aren’s face, and her smile gradually faded.

"Ah, about that..."

She looked toward the window for a moment, watching Bellini District slide past in a blur of sunlight and glass.

"I was very angry. Really angry. And at the time, I didn’t have anywhere to put that anger. I couldn’t even fight them. I couldn’t make them understand."

A small smile touched her lips as her gaze returned to Jordan.

"But... I have you and Biscuit with me, so I feel much better now."

Something tightened inside Jordan’s chest.

She had just endured a public humiliation severe enough to drive some people to desperation. Yet somehow, she was sitting beside him now, smiling as though she’d decided that the ugliness of what had happened would not be allowed to define her.

’What happened to you?’

’What made you become the person you are now?’

His fingers tightened gently around hers.

’Would you tell me about it someday?’

The desire to ask was becoming almost impossible to suppress.

But in the end, he turned his gaze toward the window instead, quietly burying the question somewhere deep inside himself.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The car finally came to a complete stop.

Jordan looked through the windshield, and a smile returned to his face.

"We’re here."

Aren leaned across the space between them to look through his window. The moment she saw what stood beyond the glass, her eyes widened until they were almost perfectly round.

"Is that...?"

She stared in disbelief at the sprawling vintage structure before them.

"...the Borgata Museum of Arts?"

"It is." Jordan’s voice carried a trace of excitement, though he couldn’t quite conceal the shy uncertainty beneath it. "I know it’s probably not the most romantic choice for a first date, but, um... I’ve been wanting to visit this place for a long time. So I thought... maybe I could bring you here too."

Aren hadn’t given even the slightest thought to whether a museum was romantic or not.

Truthfully, she wasn’t entirely sure what constituted a romantic date in the first place.

At the moment, however, none of that mattered. She was far too busy staring at the museum from every possible angle, her curiosity growing when she realized there wasn’t a single visitor in sight.

"Why does it look so empty?"

Jordan’s expression became even more sheepish.

"Because... um..."

He rubbed his good hand awkwardly over the sling supporting his injured arm.

"...I kind of booked a private viewing. For the entire place. Today."

Aren’s head snapped toward him.

"You booked the entire museum?"

"Yeah." A nervous laugh escaped him as he hurried to explain. "It’s just... you’re super famous, and I figured people would go crazy wherever you went. I didn’t want strangers interrupting us every five minutes, or reporters somehow finding us in the middle of our date. And also..."

He hesitated before his voice softened.

"...I wanted to spend some actual private time with you."

The words were simple, but the earnestness behind them softened Aren’s expression.

Jordan watched her anxiously, waiting for her reaction.

"So... do you like my choice?"

"I love it!" Aren nearly shouted, her excitement impossible to contain. "You have no idea! I’ve been wanting to visit this place!"

The sheer delight on her face sent a warm flush rushing up Jordan’s neck, along with an almost overwhelming urge to pull her closer and kiss her.

’God, why is she so damn cute?’

’How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself around her?’

Reminding himself that he’d already kissed her plenty earlier — and completely unwilling to make himself look like some kiss-starved maniac in her eyes — he reached for the door handle instead and pushed it open.

"...Shall we get inside?"

"Let’s go!" Aren replied instantly, already gathering Biscuit into her arms.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The Borgata Museum of Arts was unlike anything Aren remembered from her former world.

She had visited museums before, but the scale and sheer extravagance of this place belonged to an entirely different category.

The architecture alone was breathtaking. The vaulted ceilings soared overhead, and the galleries seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.

Even the air felt different.

It carried the cool, faintly dusty scent of old stone and carefully preserved artwork, mingled with the subtle fragrance of polished wood and wax.

Aren walked beside Jordan with Biscuit comfortably nestled in her arms, turning her head from one masterpiece to another with endless enthusiasm.

She found herself captivated by nearly all of it. Yet as they continued through the galleries, Jordan began to notice a peculiar pattern.

Aren’s attention lingered longest on one particular subject:

Food.

By the time she slowed to a stop in front of the seventh painting centered around food, he couldn’t help leaning toward her with an amused smile.

"You’re fascinated by food even when it’s only a painting."

Aren’s shoulders jumped slightly, and warmth rushed into her face.

"...The painting itself is very nice," she insisted, sounding completely convinced by her own explanation. "I just think the painter did a really good job."

A teasing smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah. Great brushwork, isn’t it? Especially on that croissant?"

Now Aren couldn’t quite hide it anymore.

The croissant in the painting looked almost painfully real, its flaky golden layers glowing beneath the painted sunlight. It was breathtakingly lifelike — lifelike enough to make her stomach betray her with a quiet growl.

"...Yes," she admitted with a small pout. "It looks so real I just wanna reach over and eat it. How much do you think paintings like these cost?"

A warm laugh escaped him.

"Why?" He raised an eyebrow. "You want to buy one so you could eat it?"

"Ahem, no." She delicately cleared her throat. "I’m just curious."

That tiny attempt at dignity only made Jordan laugh more warmly.

"Honestly, I have no idea," he admitted. "It could be a few thousand dollars. It could be several hundred thousand. Who knows? I don’t really know that much about art."

Aren turned toward him, mildly surprised.

"Oh? I thought you knew a lot about art, since you wanted to visit this place."

"No, not really," he laughed softly, shaking his head. "It’s just that... I haven’t been here in a very long time. And the last time I came here..." his voice quieted, "...it was really nice."

Aren leaned closer, more curious now.

"When was that?"

"It was a long time ago," he said with a faint smile. "I was only seven. My mother was a sculptor, so she loved places like this."

Something nostalgic passed through his expression as his gaze drifted back toward the painting.

"She used to bring me here by herself. No Father. None of my siblings. Just me and her."

For a moment, his eyes rested on the painted bread and pastries, but he wasn’t really seeing them anymore. He was seeing something much farther away.

A little boy walking beside his mother through these same halls.

Small footsteps echoing across polished floors.

A woman’s hand wrapped securely around his.

Perhaps her voice explaining something about a sculpture.

Perhaps the two of them stopping in front of the very painting they were standing before now.

The memory seemed to settle over him like the sunlight dancing across the painting. For those few seconds, Jordan looked completely at peace, but then that peace gave way to something quieter.

"The last time I was here..." his voice fell to little more than a sigh, "...it was the last time she ever took me out before she left House Marchetti."

His throat tightened.

"Before she left all five of us behind."