Chapter 12: "It’s Just Dog Fluid"
Jeremiah stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, admiring the man who looked back at him.
His light blond hair fell just right, framing a face that had sold more campaigns than he cared to count.
His teal eyes were clear and striking; they held a person’s attention even when he wasn’t trying.
He would have savored the reflection a moment longer, had his manager, Marco, not been there to shatter the peace with his restless pacing.
"She’s Ariana Lombardi, Young Boss," Marco warned for the third time. "She’s had three interventions in two years. She’s going to be difficult, or high, or both. Most likely both. This is a terrible idea."
Jeremiah didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, studying his reflection from a different angle.
"She dismantled armed men with two fingers, Marco," he said, voice smooth, almost dreamy. "You should’ve seen the security footage. It was breathtaking."
"She was probably high when she did it!" Marco threw both hands up in the air. "Adrenaline. Narcotics. Who knows what else. That kind of thing messes with the nervous system."
Jeremiah hummed, low and thoughtful.
"Which," he replied with a lazy smile, "I don’t mind at all."
"Young Boss!" Marco’s frustration finally cracked. "This is business. We can’t put a walking scandal in the Pit. The headlines alone—"
"Marco."
The single word sliced through the air like a blade.
Jeremiah’s gaze flicked to his manager through the mirror, teal eyes sparkling with tease.
"The scandals," he said lightly, "are always the point."
Marco stopped pacing. He stared at Jeremiah, searching for any sign that this was a joke.
He found none.
Jeremiah watched him through the mirror for a moment longer. Then, a long and weary sigh escaped him.
"Just imagine it," he said, voice softer now. "This is Ariana Lombardi. Millions of followers. A face people would pay to look at. A body every man in this city thinks he deserves."
He tilted his head slightly, already picturing the scene.
"Now, put her in the Pit."
The corner of his mouth curved upward.
"In something provocative. Something delicate. Something that clings when it’s soaked through. Sweat. Maybe blood."
A small shrug, careless.
"Hers... or someone else’s. Both, if we’re lucky."
Marco’s brow furrowed, slow and uncertain. He had worked for the Castellanos long enough to think he had seen every shade of madness.
Apparently, he hadn’t.
"So that’s your plan?" Marco asked, voice hoarse. "Use her as bait? Bring in the high-rollers who want to watch a pretty girl get hurt?"
Jeremiah finally turned away from the mirror and faced Marco fully. For one second, Jeremiah looked almost thoughtful.
Then,
He winked.
"Aren’t men all secretly a little sadistic?"
The smirk that followed was razor-sharp, cold enough to end the conversation on its own.
Marco opened his mouth, then wisely closed it again.
Jeremiah’s expression eased once more, the sharp edges melting back into elegance.
"But truthfully," he added, almost to himself, "I have this eerie feeling the one getting hurt... won’t be our dear Ariana."
Ding!
The elevator chimed softly, cutting through the tension of the room.
As the door slid open, Aren stepped into the lounge.
She wore a simple cream cardigan over a modest dress, her short platinum hair neat and unstyled. In her arms she cradled Biscuit, who looked completely out of place among the marble and gold.
Jeremiah’s gaze locked onto her immediately.
"Lady Ariana," he greeted, voice like warm silk as he moved toward her with graceful steps. "What a pleasure."
His eyes dropped to the dog.
"And who might this distinguished gentleman be?" he asked, a polite smile curving his lips. "A new member of your security detail?"
"This is Biscuit," Aren said, holding the dog a little closer. "I’m sorry for bringing him. I didn’t want to leave him in the car. He gets lonely."
Jeremiah leaned in slightly, still smiling.
"A pleasure to meet you both."
Biscuit stared back at him, head tilted.
His nose twitched once.
A second later, he sneezed.
Achoo!
The loud sound echoed in the luxurious room.
A fine mist landed on Jeremiah’s perfectly tailored jacket.
Jeremiah froze.
For a fraction of a second, his flawless composure cracked.
He took a sharp step back, blinking twice.
"Ah!"
Aren also stepped back.
"I’m sorry. He’s still getting used to air conditioning."
She began fussing over Biscuit, checking his fur with gentle hands.
Jeremiah pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped his cheek with perfect grace.
’Calm down.’
’Calm down.’
’It’s just dog fluid.’
’Very sticky fluid, apparently.’
By the time he lowered it, his smile had returned — smooth, charming, and completely impenetrable.
"It’s quite alright," he said, though his voice carried the faintest edge. "These things happen."
He gestured gracefully toward the lounge area.
"Would you like a drink? Vintage champagne? Artisanal chocolates? I believe beautiful things should be surrounded by beautiful tastes."
Aren shook her head, still focused on Biscuit.
"No, thank you."
Once Biscuit was fine, she finally looked up at Jeremiah properly.
Up close, his face was almost unreal — the perfect symmetry, the pale hair, the striking teal eyes. He reminded her of the painted angels she had once seen in museums in her past life.
She shook her head instantly, reminding herself why she was here.
"I’m here for the terms," she said politely. "I’ve already settled with Don Caio and Master Accardi. I’d like to be efficient with your time."
Jeremiah’s smile twitched, almost imperceptibly.
’Master Accardi?’
The title caught him off guard more than he expected.
Isidore Accardi didn’t strike him as the type for such kinks. Yet hearing her say the word sent a sharp itch through him.
He let it go just as quickly.
"Then let us go downstairs," he said warmly. "The real business happens in the Pit."
"Yes, please," Aren replied.
Jeremiah led her toward a hidden service elevator, leaving a stunned and silent Marco behind in the office.
─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─
As the elevator descended, the atmosphere changed.
The air grew heavier, charged with anticipation.
When the doors opened, the Pit revealed itself — nothing like the grimy underground rings scattered across the city.
Wide hallways stretched out, lined with original artworks worth millions of dollars. Thick crimson carpet swallowed every footstep, while overhead chandeliers casted warm, dramatic light over everything.
The entire place felt less like a fight club and more like a private theater for the obscenely wealthy.
Jeremiah stepped out first and glanced back at Aren, teal eyes gleaming.
"Welcome, my lady," he said, voice rich with pride, "to the Pit."
Aren took in the glamorous surroundings, then glanced at Jeremiah.
"Why are we coming down here?"
Jeremiah answered her with a small wink.
"Because it has everything to do with the contract I’m offering you."
