The next hour passed in a blur of concentrated reading. By then, they had moved to one of the library’s long reading tables, with even more stacks of books arranged between them.
Fortunately, Aren had not been asked to read any of those intimidating volumes.
Unfortunately, she had been given something else.
A thick stack of papers.
Aren suspected Isidore had written it himself. The contents were meticulously organized, covering page after page of possible questions a reporter might ask during Thursday’s press conference, accompanied by carefully prepared answers.
Memorization itself wasn’t particularly difficult for Aren. If anything, she was grateful to have such a comprehensive guide prepared for her.
Enjoying the process, however, was an entirely different matter. The material was so mind-numbingly dull that she could feel her eyelids growing heavier with every passing minute.
Each time, she forced herself to refocus.
’This is part of the contract.’
’And if I fail, I could expose myself.’
That was enough to keep her going.
At last, after working through the entire stack, Aren closed the final sheet and set it aside with a quiet breath.
Across from her, Isidore noticed immediately. He closed the book he had been reading and looked up.
"Ready for the test?"
Aren straightened in her chair.
"Yes, Master Accardi." She nodded firmly. "I think I’m ready."
The confidence in her expression gave Isidore some measure of relief. At least this part hadn’t proven as difficult for her as he’d initially anticipated.
"Let’s begin."
Resting both elbows on the table, he interlaced his fingers, then fixed her with the sort of intrusive stare an aggressive reporter might use to unsettle an interviewee.
"Miss Lombardi, what made you suddenly stop posting on social media?"
Aren answered almost immediately.
"I no longer find social media interesting. Reading people’s opinions about me made me feel stressed, so I wanted to take a break from it."
Isidore offered no reaction.
"What about the parties? Why have you stopped attending social events?"
"Those things are exhausting too," Aren replied. "I’d rather stay home, sleep early, and do my skincare routine. I like staying pretty."
"And what about the rumors surrounding your drug abuse?" he asked without pause. "Is it true that you’re a drug addict?"
"It’s true that I’ve had problems with drugs before, but I’ve recently gone through rehabilitation so I can focus on my new career with the Castellano Club."
When Aren finished, silence followed.
No approval came.
Instead, Isidore shook his head once.
"Too robotic."
The sharp concentration in Aren’s face vanished almost immediately. She scratched her cheek, suddenly embarrassed.
"You’re not reciting a legal statement," he continued. "You’re answering another human being. Have you even watched recordings of Ariana Lombardi and studied the way she speaks?"
"Well..." Aren shifted awkwardly in her seat. "I did. But she has a completely different personality from mine. I find it difficult to copy the way she talks."
Isidore gave no visible reaction, though inwardly, he was at least relieved that she wasn’t completely clueless.
"Repeat your last answer," he said. "Slower this time. Give it a more natural rhythm."
Aren’s shoulders drooped.
"All right..."
She cleared her throat, took a moment to compose herself, and tried again — this time using the cadence that came naturally to her.
"...It’s true that I’ve had problems with drugs before. But I’ve gone through rehab recently." She paused briefly. "I’m clean now."
She held her breath and studied Isidore’s face, waiting for some indication that she’d done better, yet none came.
His expression remained almost entirely unchanged, suggesting that her answer had only met the minimum acceptable standard.
"And which pages contained the questions I just asked?" he asked instead.
Aren answered without hesitation.
"Page ten, page five, and page twelve."
That finally produced the faintest flicker of surprise behind his otherwise unreadable eyes, though it remained entirely concealed behind his silver-rimmed glasses.
’Exceptional.’
Her ability to retain information wasn’t merely good. It was unnaturally efficient.
"Now," he continued in his usual impassive tone, "let’s try something different. I’ll ask questions that aren’t included anywhere in those papers. You’ll construct your own response and answer as naturally as possible."
Aren’s attention snapped back into place at once.
"Yes! I’m ready."
Isidore leaned back in his chair, folding his arms neatly across his chest. Then, without changing his expression, he asked,
"What is the nature of your relationship with Isidore Accardi? Is he paying you to be his whore?"
The determination on Aren’s face collapsed instantly.
She stared at him.
For several seconds, she couldn’t comprehend how he’d delivered such an obscene question with the exact expression he might have used to ask whether she preferred tea or coffee.
When she finally managed to answer, her mind, which had responded to every previous question with military precision, abruptly turned into a complete disaster.
"Um... no. That’s not true. We’re..."
Her hands began twisting together beneath the table.
"We’re having a mutually beneficial relationship that is, um... within the professional boundaries of our contract, and—"
"Wrong."
The single word cut cleanly through her miserable attempt.
"Simply say, ’We’re in a fetish relationship, and I love it.’ That should be sufficient."
That suggestion only made Aren’s expression grow more distressed.
"I... I’m sorry." Her fingers twisted together. "But... I don’t feel comfortable saying something like that in front of so many people."
Her gaze dropped to the table.
"...Especially when it’s not true."
Faced with her earnest discomfort, Isidore merely gave a faint shrug.
"It doesn’t need to be true. None of those people know you personally. Telling a lie to reporters doesn’t alter your actual value as a person."
Aren’s fingers continued to tighten as she considered his words.
"Ah... but I don’t know..." she murmured. "I don’t even know if I can remain calm in front of that many people, let alone lie well. I get... very stressed when too much attention is focused on me."
Isidore finally went quiet.
He watched her instead, taking in the nervousness in her expression, the faint tremor passing through her shoulders, the way she seemed to make herself physically smaller in her chair.
It was difficult to reconcile any of it with the woman who had, only a week earlier, stood before him and calmly threatened to withdraw from this contract.
At last, he silently removed his glasses, folded them neatly, and placed them on the table.
"Let’s give you a safer version then."
Aren looked up at once, only to find that Isidore had already risen from his chair. He walked around the table in silence and stopped beside her, then pulled out the empty chair at her side.
When he sat down, he extended one hand toward her, palm open.
"Give me your hand first."
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