Chapter 194: "What Are Your Dreams?"

Aren fell silent as she watched melancholy settle over Jordan’s features.

There was still a faint smile on his lips, but it no longer looked like happiness.

It was the kind of smile people wore when they remembered something precious that could never be recovered — a memory warm enough to cherish, yet painful precisely because it belonged to a time that was gone.

Aren knew the story.

She had learned about it shortly after arriving in this world, when she’d begun studying the Ten Houses and their complicated histories.

House Marchetti was the only one among the Ten Houses whose Donna had divorced her Don — an unspoken anomaly within Borgata’s rigid underworld hierarchy.

The circumstances surrounding the divorce, however, had remained a closely guarded secret.

The separation had taken place many years ago, and afterward, the Marchetti Donna had almost completely disappeared from Borgata’s public and underworld circles.

Because the subject was obviously sensitive, Aren had never once brought it up with Jordan. But now that he’d mentioned it himself, she suddenly felt an ache quietly opening in her chest.

Of all the places Jordan could have chosen for their first date, he’d chosen this one — the very place where he’d shared what seemed to have been his last truly happy memory with his mother.

’Did he bring me here because he wanted to share that memory with me?’

The thought left Aren strangely touched. At the same time, she had no idea what to say.

She wanted to comfort him, but every word that came to mind suddenly felt inadequate.

Before she could find the courage to say anything, however, Biscuit shifted in her arms. The dog reached out a paw and gently touched Jordan’s arm, looking up at him with golden eyes filled with quiet concern.

The small gesture drew Jordan’s attention back to them, and he seemed to finally realize where his thoughts had taken him.

With a slow breath, he pushed the melancholy aside. When he looked at Aren again, the warm smile had returned to his face.

"Come with me."

His hand found the small of her back, guiding her gently toward the next corridor.

"There was a really beautiful sculpture in one of the rooms ahead the last time I was here. My mother made it. Let’s see if they still keep it there."

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The room Jordan had mentioned was enormous, yet strangely empty.

Long wooden benches occupied one side of the gallery, while an immense sculptural installation stood at the far end, surrounded by polished stanchions and velvet ropes.

It felt less like an ordinary gallery and more like a chamber deliberately preserved for a single masterpiece.

Aren and Jordan took a seat on one of the benches at the very back.

The moment they settled down, Biscuit’s curiosity seemed to get the better of him. He jumped out of Aren’s arms and immediately began investigating the vast room, his nose twitching constantly as he inspected every corner.

Aren watched him for a moment and laughed quietly.

The museum might have been sacred ground to art enthusiasts, but to Biscuit, it was apparently a newly discovered playground.

Once Biscuit had wandered a safe distance away, Aren’s hand found Jordan’s on the bench. Her smaller fingers slipped between his, and their hands settled together as they turned their attention toward the sculpture.

It was massive by any standard.

The work consisted of a series of enormous stone hands, each carved into an elegant and expressive pose.

Arranged across the polished wooden floor, they created an almost surreal landscape of human hands frozen in motion.

A brass placard stood before the installation:

"Hands of Creation."

Ivana Marchetti.

"Hands of Creation..." Aren repeated softly as she read the name.

She studied the sculpture for another moment, before turning toward Jordan with open curiosity.

"Did your mother ever tell you what it means?"

"Yeah." Jordan laughed softly at the memory. "She wouldn’t stop talking about it back then. She said the work was a tribute to people who think with their hands. Painters. Crafters. Artisans. Everyone at the Marchetti compound at the time, too, I suppose."

Aren nodded thoughtfully as she studied the different poses of the hands, the meaning beginning to take shape in her mind.

"That’s a really profound meaning behind the work... and the sculpture itself is incredible. Your mother must have been a very prolific artist."

Jordan’s brow furrowed faintly as he considered it.

"I think she still is. She’s got her own studio now. She’s even held exhibitions overseas."

Aren immediately turned toward him, excitement brightening her expression.

"She has her own studio? Where is it? Can we go visit her? I’d love to see her other works."

Jordan gave a small, embarrassed laugh and shook his head.

"I’m afraid that’s not possible. She’s not even in Borgata anymore. She moved to Malakor after the divorce, and I haven’t even seen her in... fourteen years now."

The revelation made Aren’s eyes widen.

She knew of Malakor.

It was the largest city in the northern part of the country.

From what she remembered, a direct flight from Borgata took only around two hours.

And yet, fourteen years...

’That’s a really long time to be apart.’

’I know very little about how normal families work in this world, but for a mother and her son to go fourteen years without seeing each other when they live only a two-hour flight apart...’

’That sounds... very strange.’

"So..." Aren looked at him uncertainly. "...you didn’t want to visit her?"

Jordan could only let out another laugh, though this one sounded strangely bitter.

"Nah. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I’ve wanted to. Many times, actually."

Faint sadness overtook his expression.

"But I basically can’t. Father strictly forbade me and all my siblings from having any sort of contact with our mother. I haven’t even called or texted her since she left Borgata."

Aren’s confusion deepened.

"But... why would Don Eduardo forbid you from contacting your own mother?"

"Honestly, I have no idea." Jordan gave a helpless shrug. "It’s not like my father’s exactly famous for explaining his reasons or discussing personal matters with us."

He thought about it for a moment, wanting to share more with her.

"My best guess is that... Father thought having us interact with her would make us more distracted than he wanted. My mother was an artist. A dreamer, I guess you could say. She always wanted us to pursue the things we actually liked."

A faint, wistful smile crossed his lips.

"She wanted us to have lives. Wanted us to have our own dreams and chase them, instead of spending every waking hour training just to serve the House. And my father was..."

He let out a quiet sigh.

"...you know what he’s like."

Aren fell quiet for a moment, listening to the exhaustion woven into Jordan’s sigh.

It was as though this was something he’d spent years turning over in his mind, only to find himself trapped in a situation where there was no way out, no solution, no closure, and no real satisfaction.

He’d simply learned to accept things as they were, while remaining completely helpless to change them.

The realization deepened the quiet ache in Aren’s chest.

Tentatively, she tightened her fingers around his, interlacing them more firmly as though the small gesture might offer him some measure of comfort.

"Jordan," she asked softly, "what are your dreams?"

Jordan turned toward her, surprised by both the intimate gesture and the question.

"...Me?"

"Yes." Aren smiled. "You must have your own dreams, too, don’t you?"

For a moment, Jordan could only sit there and look at her smile.

He tried to give the question the serious consideration it deserved, only to discover that he had no immediate answer to something so fundamental.

"I..."

His voice dropped to barely a whisper.

"...I can’t really remember. When I was four, I dreamed of having all the candy in the world."

The sheer sincerity of the confession caught Aren off guard.

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth as she tried and failed to contain herself.

"I dreamed of having all the candy in the world, too!"

"Yeah?" Jordan laughed along with her. "It’s probably every kid’s dream at some point, right? I also dreamed of becoming a sculptor like my mom when I was six. Then I realized I was terrible at it, so I decided I wanted to become an astronaut instead."

Aren’s laughter grew louder.

"An astronaut?"

"Yeah," Jordan grinned. "I figured I could go into space, collect interesting stones from other planets, and bring them back for my mother so she could make more sculptures."

The more he talked, the harder Aren laughed.

For a moment, Jordan felt strangely lighter simply from making her laugh — and revisiting all those ridiculous little dreams he’d once had as a child.

Yet, as his memories moved into his later years, something quieter settled over his eyes.

"But then... I got older and realized what I become isn’t really in my hands."

His gaze dropped to the hand holding hers.

"It’s in my father’s hands. The way things are going, the only place I’m really heading is toward taking his place."