Chapter 3
Chapter – 03
Arno turned his attention to a fresh enterprise.
A theatrical display, masked as a dramatic production.
The final heir of the crumbled Mesena domain reveals the opulent playhouse she lavished with her excesses.
Whispers about the Duke of Mesena’s daughter electrified the Empire.
On the surface, outrage dominated conversations over her scandals staining the Duchy of Mesena.
Beneath that facade, a hidden excitement pulsed through the crowds.
As the Empire’s former artistic hub crumbled into dust, observers savored the spectacle of its demise.
Echoes of a toppled noble line captivated with a perverse allure.
That notion alone ignited a mix of nostalgia, smug satisfaction at their downfall, and reluctant admiration for the duchy’s crowning relic.
The Princess of Indulgence.
Arno yearned to put her on show.
Her claim echoed in his thoughts.
Even after auctioning every family heirloom, something irreplaceable remained in her grasp.
Would anyone credit such a story?
That fleeting glimpse of raw emotion on her features nearly convinced him.
For an instant, he glimpsed potential honesty in the princess herself.
Reality crashed back upon his return home.
She had seized the sales records without delay.
Cash in hand meant fresh gowns, gems, and millinery.
Acquiring the venue ranked as yet another fleeting whim.
Cherished recollections?
Ridiculous.
Still, the tenderness in her gaze as she evoked her grandfather haunted him.
Her tone, her posture in that instant.
Arno prided himself on piercing deceptions, a skill forged in endless deals and bargains.
That exchange rang true, beyond fabrication.
Yet authenticity eluded her nature entirely.
Pure impulse defined her essence, barring any depth of candor.
A being ruled by craving proved a prime commodity for profit.
Thus, the following morning, he proposed a midday meal with the princess, who had risen late.
He typically dodged chats with that erratic hoarder of luxuries, lest they spiral into rants on baubles, suitors, or finery.
This occasion demanded purpose.
During the meal.
“Princess.”
“…”
“Princess.”
“…”
“Luiza!”
A startle rippled through her.
Incredibly, Luiza Mesena had nodded off mere feet away.
The same obsessive who once fixated on his features across the table.
“Did sleep evade you yesterday?”
“For someone like me, midday feels like first light. Stayed up devouring pages, updating myself, mostly poring over those sales figures. Oh, yes. Where were we?”
Literature held no place in her reputation.
Since when did familiarity color her address?
Childhood painted her as a menace, terrorizing all.
As ruin loomed over the duchy, fawning courtesy had replaced it, laced with desperation.
What prompted this shift?
Clarity struck with her ledger mention.
Vigil spent plotting her incoming fortune.
Predictable.
Irritation flared as he realized his gaze had lingered on her repose longer than intended.
Arno responded curtly.
“Nothing yet. Merely warming up.”
“Got it. Proceed then.”
Luiza laid aside her silverware, carving her portion with impeccable grace.
Nobility shaped her upbringing, yet etiquette had always seemed beyond her.
He attributed it to her grandfather’s doting, sparing her polish.
Evidently, mastery lay dormant, ignored by choice.
Arno observed, faintly stunned.
“Here’s the opener. I pored over those accounts until dawn.”
Expected.
“Numbers swam before my eyes from the math alone.”
Arithmetic from her? Unthinkable.
“To clear the theater’s price tag, better to operate it right than let it gather dust. Grant me control, if you will.”
“…”
Arno went rigid.
Alfredo, refilling glasses nearby, faltered visibly.
Small surprise there.
Productivity eluded her existence, save indulgences and pursuits of passion.
Arno envisioned her lending flair to the decor at most, leveraging her tastes.
Debt waiver served as the lure.
The playhouse’s sum rivaled a typical noble’s yearly outlay.
House Dienze dwarfed such scales.
Repayment vows rang hollow, lacking means or will.
He resigned to leverage over recovery.
Now this.
Self-management for redemption?
Arno fixed Luiza with incredulous eyes.
Her grandfather, amid her ailments’ advance, had thrust duties upon her, from local enterprises to ducal oversight.
Each collapsed under her mismanagement, funds vanished.
Entrust a theater to that?
Skepticism ruled.
Opportunity, however, beckoned.
Feigned hesitation would suffice outwardly.
“What makes you worthy of the reins?”
“Figured you’d probe.”
Anticipating resistance, she produced a bound sheaf from her jacket.
A yawn tilted her head, revealing unbound tresses, simply coiled and secured by a writing feather.
No such casual state before.
Vanity consumed her rituals.
“Merchants chase culture’s glow but guard their coffers fiercely.”
Her murmur carried an enigmatic edge.
“Script’s mine. Plot, figures, backdrop, costs sketched out. Should thrive, I wager.”
Exhaustion shadowed her eyes as she eyed her work, flashing teeth in delight.
Her first unfeigned grin.
Raw, unvarnished.
True joy reshaped her: bold, almost youthful.
His stare held fast once more.
“Guaranteed success?”
“Scan it yourself. Perfection defines it.”
Her assurance compelled him to accept the pages.
Bold letters named it on front.
“Romeo? Juliet? Leads so garish?”
“…”
Exasperation creased her brow.
No reply came.
All-night immersion in tomes left this realm’s void of Shakespeare jarringly alien.
Surprise hit when Arno approved theater oversight far swifter than anticipated post-script review.
His explanation clarified.
Minimal effort governed such venues.
Junior performers managed admissions, Alfredo tracked ledgers, cast delivered lines.
The text held merit.
Evidently, her father’s cultural grooming bore some fruit.
Sarcasm dripped, yet approval stood.
Logic simplified it.
This realm mirrored Shakespeare’s time.
Reading confirmed suspicions into certainty.
Theater thrived on patrons, authors, performers.
Directors remained unknown.
Legendary tales circulated freely, like enduring folk epics, staged broadly.
Triumph hinged on talent, not vision.
Scholars noted Shakespeare’s canon drew from popular yarns, reworked.
He embodied performer-impresario over solitary scribe.
Thus, Arno endorsed the text alone.
Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, truth be told.
Crucially, he grasped scandal’s draw.
Count Arno Dienze echoed Venice’s usurer: calculating, merciless.
Investment hinged less on craft than parading the duchy’s disgraced jewel.
Luiza Mesena dominated Empire chatter.
Iconic antagonist.
Her theater debut would draw hordes, lured by derision.
Scornful cheers, biting laughs.
Arno ignored the emotional toll on his betrothed.
Calculating brilliance.
Outrage would sting Luiza, but crowds would pay premiums.
As interloper in her skin, no personal sting registered from puppetry.
Mission demanded transforming jeers to wonder.
Reshape the antagonist’s arc, settle the count’s claim.
Enter her rendition of Romeo and Juliet.
Time to assemble the troupe.
She donned a signature chapeau from Luiza’s trove and exited the estate.
Alfredo trailed, fretful.
“Meeting him for real?”
Indeed, the targeted thespian tied to Luiza’s history.
Precisely.
“Spending the Count’s coin on… pitching a part to an old flame?”
Past entanglement, as one might phrase.
She beamed at the aghast servant.
“Cast uncertain till auditions. Romance demands striking leads, so scout the eye candy hubs, right?”
Antagonist flair flowed effortlessly.
In another existence, such a turn would’ve snagged theater’s top honors before any halo.
