Chapter 32: "Gracious As Always"
Several women immediately perked up upon hearing Corinna’s voice.
Cameras shifted toward the two gorgeous women at once.
Corinna slowly looked Aren up and down, face twisted with disgust.
"Oh, my. I almost didn’t recognize you, my lady. You’re usually practically naked at these events. What on earth are you trying to hide under all that fabric today?"
Aren quickly glanced down at the dress.
"Oh..."
Outwardly, she remained perfectly calm.
Inwardly, panic detonated.
’Did she notice the knives under my sleeves?’
’Or the backup firearm on my thigh?’
’Or the cable restraints?’
’How?’
Very subtly, she checked for visible weapon outlines beneath the fabric rather than replying.
Annoyed by Aren’s silence, Corinna added, louder this time,
"Or perhaps you’ve finally discovered what dignity is after sleeping with half the rich men in Borgata? Honestly, darling, congratulations on the sudden breakthrough."
The women standing nearby laughed immediately, the sound delicate and vicious all at once.
Most hid their smiles behind manicured fingers or crystal champagne glasses, but their eyes gleamed openly with amusement.
Meanwhile, Chiara stepped smoothly between Aren and Corinna with perfectly timed disappointment written across her beautiful face.
"Corinna," she scolded sharply, "honestly. Must you behave this way at my event?"
Corinna scoffed, tossing her blonde hair over one shoulder irritably.
"I’m only saying what everyone in the city already knows."
Chiara’s expression sharpened at once.
"You’re being rude."
Then, as if flipping a switch, warmth flowed seamlessly back into her face as she turned toward Aren.
"This is my younger sister, Corinna," Chiara said apologetically. "Please forgive her. Sometimes she forgets basic manners."
Aren nodded politely. "Oh..."
Relief flooded through her immediately.
’So she didn’t spot my gears.’
’Phew.’
"I’m not offended," Aren said honestly. "Thank you."
Chiara smiled at once, visibly pleased by the response.
"Come," she said, looping an arm through Aren’s. "Let’s get you inside properly."
Together, they ascended the grand staircase into the ballroom while camera flashes erupted behind them, exactly as Chiara intended. Behind them, photographers continued capturing every second of their interaction.
To outsiders, they looked almost affectionate, like two elegant socialites reunited after years apart.
Aren walked quietly beside Chiara, offering little more than attentive nods while the true focus of her attention drifted elsewhere.
Toward the servants.
Toward the exits.
Toward the movement of the room itself.
’Four main entrances.’
’Two accessible balconies.’
’No visual confirmation of the Ombra operative yet.’
As they moved deeper into the ballroom, Chiara guided her toward the long rectangular table positioned at the center of the hall — the most visible seats in the entire room.
The moment Aren sat down, the woman seated to her left spoke.
"Perhaps we’ve never properly introduced ourselves, Lady Ariana."
The voice was calm, controlled — with ice buried beneath every syllable.
Aren looked over, recognition flickering instantly across her face.
’Natalia Porto.’
Natalia of House Porto ruled the docks, publicly reigning as the chief authority over port security and maritime logistics.
Her monopoly on customs was the ultimate blind spot for an international smuggling empire.
Natalia didn’t wait for a reply.
The instant Aren looked at her, Natalia lowered her champagne glass onto the table with a deliberate click.
"Since we’ve never properly spoken before," she said coolly, "let me introduce myself correctly. I’m Natalia Porto of House Porto."
Her sharp gaze locked onto Aren completely.
"I’m here to talk about Jordan Marchetti."
"Oh," Aren replied brightly.
Memory surfaced vividly on her mind — the Marchetti compound, Eduardo Marchetti shouting furiously inside his office, and Jordan standing there looking exhausted while a soldier announced Lady Natalia’s arrival.
’Ah.’
’So this is that Natalia.’
Aren smiled warmly.
"Jordan is a very nice person," she said honestly. "What would you like to discuss regarding him?"
The smile caught Natalia completely off guard. For the briefest second, irritation cracked through her composure before she forced it back into place.
"You’ve become very skilled at pretending lately," she hissed quietly. "But you won’t fool me." Her gaze narrowed into dangerous slits. "So let me make this very clear. House Marchetti and House Porto are meant to unite."
Aren listened attentively.
"...Okay."
An awkward pause stretched between them.
"And?"
Natalia’s composure tightened another degree.
"Listen very carefully."
She leaned forward aggressively, invading Aren’s space.
"Jordan and I are soon to be engaged."
Aren tilted her head.
"...Engaged?"
Natalia nearly laughed in disbelief.
"Is the concept unfamiliar to you?" she asked mockingly. "I’m aware your romantic reputation is... vulgar. But if you still consider yourself part of the Ten Houses, then at least respect tradition and stay away from an engaged man."
Aren considered the statement with complete seriousness.
’So... Jordan is engaged to this Natalia.’
’Okay.’
’...But what does that have to do with my consulting job?’
’What if I need to ask for his professional opinion?’
’Am I supposed to stand on one end of the workshop and shout at him?’
’Call his secretary?’
’Text him?’
’That sounds very... inefficient.’
"I can’t quite promise that," Aren admitted at last. "I’m currently contracted with House Marchetti, so Jordan may still become involved in the process."
Natalia let out a short, humorless laugh.
"So that’s the excuse you’re using to cling to him now, huh?"
Aren shook her head lightly.
"It’s a responsibility I intend to fulfill."
Beneath the table, Natalia’s hands clenched tightly into the fabric of her gown.
’Cheap whore.’
The insult burned hotly through her mind. She opened her mouth, ready to spit something far crueler—
"Well now."
A smooth female voice sliced cleanly through the tension.
"Isn’t this my brother-in-law’s rumored little plaything?"
Both of them looked up immediately.
An older woman approached the table slowly, draped in a gown that looked as though it had been spun from molten gold.
She was stunning in the same way expensive knives were stunning — sharp, cold, perfectly controlled.
Her high cheekbones cast elegant shadows beneath the ballroom lights, while blood-red lips curved faintly with disdain as her eyes settled onto Aren.
No warmth whatsoever existed in every lines of her expression.
The moment Natalia recognized her, her posture shifted instantly into respect.
She rose smoothly from her chair.
"Lady Micaela," she greeted. "I didn’t expect to see you here."
Micaela Accardi seemed pleased by the immediate submission. Her red lips curved into the faintest imitation of a smile.
"I could say the same, Lady Natalia," she replied smoothly. "You’re gracious as always."
The compliment vanished the instant her attention returned to Aren.
"Unlike someone else, who never quite learned basic manners."
Aren had absolutely no idea who this woman was, but she rose politely from her chair anyway and inclined her head.
"Good afternoon, madam."
Micaela’s expression instantly soured into open disgust.
"That’s all?" she snapped loudly. "No title? No proper greeting? Nothing?"
Nearby conversations immediately began quieting.
Several heads subtly turned toward the table.
"At the very least," Micaela continued icily, "you could have addressed me as Mrs. Accardi if your upbringing included basic education."
Shocked murmurs spread instantly through the surrounding tables.
"Oh my God..."
"Isn’t that Isaac Accardi’s wife?"
"I didn’t realize she was attending."
"She’s the wealthiest woman in Borgata..."
A short distance away, Chiara, Corinna, and Lucilla had already noticed the confrontation.
Corinna looked seconds away from bursting into laughter.
Lucilla seemed openly delighted, while Chiara merely watched with elegant amusement, champagne balanced delicately between her fingers.
Meanwhile, Aren listened carefully to the whispers around her, processing the information piece by piece.
’Ah.’
’House Accardi.’
’Don Isaac’s wife.’
’A Donna.’
"My apologies, Mrs. Accardi," Aren said politely. "Is there something you wished to discuss with me?"
Micaela’s scorn didn’t lessen in the slightest.
"Finally," she sneered. "Someone has to teach you manners. Apparently that responsibility falls to me."
She flicked a dismissive hand toward Aren as though shooing away something offensive.
"Do you even understand where you’re seated right now?" she asked coldly. "This is the main table. And the chair you’re occupying belongs to me."
Aren glanced briefly toward Chiara — who only returned a flawless smile, before she looked back toward Micaela.
"But Lady Chiara guided me here."
Micaela’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
"And you believe her opinion outweighs mine? I am the First Lady of House Accardi. My husband practically owns your family’s debt."
Another dismissive flick of her hand.
"Move. Before you embarrass the Lombardi name even further."
Aren remained perfectly still. Her gaze lowered thoughtfully toward the table.
’This person is family with Master Accardi.’
’But she is nowhere near as admirable as him.’
When Aren lifted her eyes again, they had gone calm.
Cold.
Sharp enough that several nearby listeners visibly stiffened.
"I’m afraid the shame is on you, madam," she said evenly. "You are being very unreasonable compared to Master Accardi."
