Chapter 210: "A Very Strange Argument"

Jeremiah spotted the pair long before they reached him. Aren’s platinum hair was hardly inconspicuous, and Jordan stood tall enough to be easily picked out from almost any crowd.

The moment Jeremiah recognized them, his entire expression brightened.

"Ah. Look who’s finally here."

Whatever amusing thing the woman beside him had been saying instantly ceased to matter. Jeremiah excused himself from the circle and stepped away, his attention shifting completely toward Aren.

The change did not go unnoticed.

The woman in silver slowly lowered the hand that had been resting against Jeremiah’s sleeve, her pleasant expression stiffening as she watched him leave.

The others reacted little better. Their curious glances lasted perhaps half a second — before souring into unmistakable jealousy when they recognized exactly whom Jeremiah Castellano had abandoned them for.

In the middle of the reception hall, Jeremiah stopped before Aren and offered his hand with courtly elegance.

"Lovely to see you again, my dear Ariana."

Before she could respond, he’d already taken her hand and bent to press a light kiss across her knuckles.

"You look absolutely stunning," he said, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over Aren’s decidedly simple jeans and T-shirt, "...even in the most understated outfit imaginable."

Aren gave him only a polite inclination of her head.

She wasn’t smiling, nor did she seem to notice the elegant linguistic maneuver by which Jeremiah had transformed "terribly ordinary" into "understated."

"Good to see you, Mister Castellano."

She calmly withdrew her hand.

"I wish to thank you for the flowers you kindly sent to the Sartori estate last week. But I’m afraid there’s a problem we need to discuss directly."

Jeremiah’s brows rose with immediate curiosity.

"Oh?"

He never got the chance to ask what problem she meant. The women he’d abandoned had already reached them.

By then, the women’s displeasure was no longer subtle. The sharp clicks of their expensive heels sounded absurdly loud even against the plush carpet, and several nearby guests instinctively glanced over.

"So this is Ariana Lombardi."

Aren turned just as the woman in silver stopped nearby, her champagne glass held delicately between manicured fingers. Her gaze traveled slowly from Aren’s platinum hair to her face, then down the length of her outfit before returning upward.

"How fascinating."

The woman’s lips curled.

"Tell me, Miss Lombardi. After half of Borgata has already watched you spread your legs on a screen, do you genuinely have so little shame that you still associate yourself with prestigious establishments like the Castellano Club? Or have you simply decided there’s no point pretending to possess any?"

Her companion gave a soft, derisive laugh.

"Oh, don’t be so cruel. Perhaps shame is difficult to develop when modesty was never there to begin with."

Jordan went rigid.

The warmth vanished from his face so completely that the change was startling. Before Aren could respond, he stepped forward, positioning himself between her and the women.

"If humiliating someone over a crime committed against her is your idea of good breeding, then I think you’ve misunderstood what makes a place prestigious."

His gaze moved coolly between the women.

"And if you need a stranger’s suffering to make yourselves feel respectable, I wouldn’t be questioning her dignity."

Silence descended around them.

Several nearby conversations faltered as people began noticing the confrontation.

Jeremiah, meanwhile, looked positively delighted.

His smile widened as his gaze traveled between Jordan and the women, already deciding that interfering with such excellent entertainment would be nothing short of criminal.

The woman in silver stared at Jordan, momentarily struck speechless.

Color rose beneath her carefully applied makeup, but with half the reception hall watching now, retreating would mean losing face.

"How noble."

Her smile turned brittle.

"Standing up for your little girlfriend after the entire city has already seen what she offers other men in private."

The woman’s companion folded one arm beneath her chest and added mockingly,

"I’d be more concerned about what sort of man willingly parades around with a woman like that. Unless, of course, sharing doesn’t bother him."

Jordan’s jaw tightened.

Anger struck so hard and fast that, for one dangerous second, every instinct urged him to abandon civility entirely.

’These fucking—’

Before he could hurl the curse at them, Aren stepped past him and faced the women directly.

"Excuse me, madam," she said calmly, "but I think you’re mistaken."

The woman in silver gave her a disdainful look.

"About what?"

Aren’s expression remained perfectly composed.

"About which person here should be embarrassed."

Her gaze moved from one woman to the next, her manner unfailingly polite.

"Someone violated my privacy and publicly displayed intimate footage of me without my consent. I have nothing to be ashamed of for being the victim of that."

The woman opened her mouth, but Aren continued steadily.

"You, however, chose to watch it. You chose to remember it. And now you’ve chosen to walk across a room specifically to tell me what you saw. So between us, why exactly am I the one behaving shamelessly?"

The silence that followed was exquisite.

Somewhere among the gathering spectators, someone disguised a laugh very badly as a cough.

The woman in silver stared at Aren.

Clearly, she’d expected tears, anger and embarrassment. What she hadn’t expected was for Aren to take the accusation apart — as though she’d been handed a faulty mathematical proof.

Fortunately for her, one of her companions recovered first.

"Oh, please."

She waved one hand dismissively.

"Don’t suddenly pretend you’re some innocent victim. Women with dignity don’t end up in recordings like that to begin with."

Aren’s brows drew together.

For the first time all evening, genuine disbelief crossed her face.

"That’s a very strange argument. By that logic, if someone secretly recorded you naked tomorrow, your dignity would disappear the moment other people watched it."

The woman instantly stiffened.

Aren continued with complete sincerity.

"Under normal circumstances, I would think someone had violated your privacy, and I would blame the person responsible. But since you’ve explained that your own standard is different, madam, I’ll remember that if it ever happens to you."

A tiny, strangled noise came from somewhere in the gathering crowd.

Jeremiah abruptly turned his face away. His knuckles pressed against his mouth, but they did very little to conceal the trembling of his shoulders.

Jordan could only stare at Aren. The anger in his chest hadn’t disappeared, but something warmer was rapidly overtaking it — an almost ridiculous surge of pride.

’Jesus, Ariana.’

She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t threatened anyone. She hadn’t lost her temper. Yet somehow, with perfect politeness, she’d dismantled them piece by piece.

Meanwhile, the woman in silver had gone scarlet.

"You arrogant little—"

Her companion seized her arm before she could finish, perhaps finally realizing that every additional sentence only handed Aren another weapon.

"Forget it!" she snapped. "This whore is hardly worth embarrassing ourselves over."

"Indeed!" the woman in silver agreed sharply, gathering whatever remained of her dignity. "Enjoy the attention while it lasts, Miss Lombardi. Borgata has a very short memory for women whose only claim to fame is scandal."

Another woman gave an imperious sniff as they turned away.

"And perhaps keep your clothes on tonight. Some of us actually came here for the fights."

With that, they stalked away, their heels striking the plush carpet with considerably more force than before.

Behind them, Jeremiah watched the women retreat with increasing amusement, making no further attempt to restrain himself.

"Goodness."

He finally surrendered to a soft, delighted laugh.

"My dear Ariana, I must say, that was magnificent."

Aren, however, had already dismissed the confrontation. The instant the women were gone, she turned abruptly back toward Jeremiah, her expression returning to its previous seriousness.

"All right. Now that that’s settled, Mister Castellano, I’d like to return to the problem we were discussing."

Jeremiah’s laughter subsided into an innocent smile.

"Of course. Which problem was that?"

"You told people we’re dating."

Jeremiah’s smile remained perfectly intact.

"Ah. That problem."

"Yes. That problem." Aren regarded him solemnly. "We’re not dating. I never agreed to date you, and I don’t remember having any conversation in which we established that kind of relationship. So I’d like to understand why you’ve been telling people otherwise."

Jeremiah considered the question with all the gravity of a philosopher confronted by one of humanity’s great mysteries.

He tilted his head, then smiled.

"Because we’ll probably date eventually."

Aren stared at him.

Jordan stared at him.

Even Biscuit on the floor had to tilt his head all the way up to stare at him.

Jeremiah spread his hands as though the logic should have been self-evident.

"Really, announcing it slightly ahead of schedule seemed administratively efficient. Why burden the public with two separate announcements when one will eventually become accurate?"

Aren’s brows drew together.

"We are not going to date eventually."

Jeremiah shrugged.

"Not with that attitude of yours, darling."

Meanwhile, Jordan had endured about as much of the conversation as he could tolerate without intervening. He stepped closer, his expression darkening.

"Enough with the bullshit, Jeremiah. Stop telling people you’re dating my girlfriend when it isn’t fucking true."

Jeremiah turned toward him with delighted innocence.

"Your girlfriend?" he repeated thoughtfully. "How possessive, my dear old friend. I thought modern romance encouraged open communication."

"My communication is about to become extremely fucking clear if you keep making shit up about her."

Aren glanced cautiously between them.

’That doesn’t sound like communication.’

’That sounds like Jordan’s preparing to hit him.’

Given Jordan’s injured shoulder, that seemed medically inadvisable. Regardless, she took a step back to protect Biscuit from becoming collateral damage.

Jeremiah, however, seemed completely unconcerned by the increasingly hostile man in front of him. If anything, his smile became positively angelic.

"Now, now. There’s no need for jealousy. Since I’ve already explained that I find you sufficiently attractive, I’m perfectly willing to accommodate you in the arrangement."

His gaze traveled over Jordan with shameless consideration.

"Ariana can have Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You and I can negotiate Tuesdays and Thursdays privately. Weekends remain flexible depending on my stamina."

"You—"

By then, Jordan looked entirely prepared to seize Jeremiah by his pristine collar and introduce his face to the nearest wall. Before his good hand could actually reach it, however, a sudden ripple of gasps swept through the reception hall.

The change in the crowd was immediate enough to break even Jordan’s murderous concentration.

Conversations faltered.

Heads turned.

People subtly shifted aside.

Eventually, all four of them looked toward the elevators, Biscuit included.

Two figures entered the reception hall together — a middle-aged man and woman, both immaculately dressed, walking arm in arm.

There was something unmistakable in the way they carried themselves, an effortless authority that altered the room around them as naturally as water parting before the bow of a ship.

They looked like they owned the entire place. Which, in a very real sense, they did.

Aren recognized the man immediately.

Claudio Castellano had perhaps been the best-dressed Don at the Summit table. While nearly every other Don had favored black, brown, charcoal, or some similarly severe shade, the Don of House Castellano had chosen white.

Tonight was no different.

His suit was immaculate, a brilliant white so conspicuous that it attracted every eye in the room.

In that respect, at least, Jeremiah had unquestionably inherited his father’s instincts. Neither man seemed remotely interested in the conventional idea that criminals ought to dress discreetly and disappear into the shadows.

The woman whose arm was entwined with Claudio’s was no less striking.

Maria Castellano.

She moved beside her husband with the effortless bearing of a queen, her elegant gown flowing around her as they passed through the crowd.

Yet, there was something unexpectedly warm about her face. Her features were soft, her expression gentle, almost kind — strangely at odds with the gruesome reputation one might expect from the Donna of an empire built partly upon blood sports.

Beside Aren, Jeremiah’s face brightened enough to illuminate the reception hall by itself.

"Ah! It seems my parents have finally arrived."

Before Aren or Jordan could react, Jeremiah stepped neatly between them. Then, without requesting permission from either party, he hooked one arm through Aren’s and the other through Jordan’s.

Aren looked down at her captured arm.

’What is he doing?’

Jordan looked down at his.

’No.’

They both arrived at the same terrible realization at precisely the same moment.

"What are you—" Jordan began.

Jeremiah was already moving.

"Come along! Let me introduce my new boyfriend and girlfriend properly to my parents!"

"Jeremiah—"

It was too late.

With shameless enthusiasm and no concern whatsoever for Jordan’s rapidly deteriorating temper, Jeremiah cheerfully dragged both of them straight toward the Don and Donna of House Castellano.