Red Wine & Ghosts of You

Four Years Later

I’d been in New York for exactly theree week and so far:

I hadn’t even opened my second suitcase.

I’d consumed more espresso than hours of sleep.

I’d made one client cry, one opposing attorney puke, and got a court assistant to save my number.

All in all, a promising start.

I leaned back into my brand new black leather chair, which cost more than two months’ rent in Miami, rubbing my temples with one hand. My blazer sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and my desk was cluttered with paperwork, two empty coffee cups, and a note from my mother that read:

“Have you met any rich, respectable men yet?”

Funny. I almost did. Until he got engaged and knocked someone else up.

“So… I’m really free now, right?” the voice in front of me snapped me out of the spiral I was slipping into.

I looked up. Catherine Rowe. Blonde hair in a sleek bun, flawless makeup, and a smile like someone just unlocked the gates to her personal prison.

“Yes,” I said, closing the last of the files. “Legally, your husband no longer has the right to freeze your accounts, take your dog, or lay a single finger on that depressing art collection of yours.”

“Hey,” she pouted. “That’s Monet.”

I raised a brow. “It’s a canvas print from A****n, Cathy. Even my intern knows the difference between Monet and an Epson printer.”

She laughed loudly, too loudly for a law office on the 27th floor with glass walls but I let her.

She’d just finalized her divorce from a man who cheated on her with his pilates instructor and tried to claim half of her family’s restaurant that had been around since 1973. If anyone deserved a laugh, it was her.

“Thank you, Dianna. Seriously. You saved my life.”

“Well, I also saved two cats and possibly a bonsai from your house. Call me a local hero.”

She stood up. We shook hands. Her nails were deep maroon. Bold, expensive. “I’m sending all my friends to you,” she said. “Especially the ones with asshole husbands.”

“Perfect. Fingers crossed they all cheat this year,” I smiled.

She laughed again and left, twirling the lock on her Chanel bag as she went. The door closed with a soft click, and I let my head fall back against the chair.

Three weeks ago, I was in Miami, stuck in credit card fraud cases and an elderly couple fighting over who got to keep their tortoise.

Now? I was sitting in the middle of the busiest city in the world, wearing the title Senior Litigation Counsel at one of the most powerful firms on the East Coast.

And yeah, sometimes I still wanted to run back to South Beach and pretend none of this was real. But life isn’t a TV show. You don’t get to press pause.

“Miss Rosa?”

The voice came from the half-open door. Sofia, my assistant, who was far too efficient to be fully human, stepped in holding a red folder and an expression that was… almost eager.

Uh-oh.

“What?” I muttered without opening my eyes.

“A new document just came in. Confidential. Sealed.”

I lifted my head. “Okay. And?”

“It’s from someone claiming to be the son-in-law of one of the most influential families in the world. He says he needs legal counsel for something extremely sensitive.”

I stared at her. “You just said ‘confidential’ and ‘influential’ in the same sentence. That sounds like the cold open of Scandal.”

She almost smiled. Which meant she was dead serious. “I left it on your desk if you want to look at it later. They’re asking for a signed NDA before we even read the details.”

I yawned. “Send it to Legal first. I’m still enjoying the afterglow of Cathy’s divorce.”

Sofia nodded, placed the red folder on top of the existing pile, and left. No sender name. Just one label on the cover:

CONFIDENTIAL. EYES ONLY.

I didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Because I knew damn well folders like that never show up without consequences. And I wasn’t caffeinated enough to walk into that rabbit hole today.

Still, something stirred in the back of my mind. An old instinct. Cold and sharp.

And for some reason, the back of my neck felt icy just looking at it a second too long.

+++++++++

It had been thirty-seven minutes since Sofia dropped that red folder on my desk. And for thirty-seven minutes, I’d done everything I could to convince myself not to open it.

Rational reason: I was tired. Hungry. Still had a class-action filing due next week. Real reason? Something in my gut twisted the second Sofia said “married into one of the most powerful families in the world.”

And usually, when my instincts start twitching like that, the universe is about to mess with me again.

I caved at minute thirty-eight.

Not out of curiosity, but hunger. If I didn’t distract myself soon, I was going to order a family-size pizza and regret it later when I tried to squeeze into my favorite dress.

I flipped open the folder. The clasp made a soft click that sounded a little too much like a pulse thudding in the quiet. Inside were two pages. One NDA. One cover letter written in pale blue ink with a signature I recognized immediately.

Amelia M. Romano.

...

...

Amelia.

Jesus.

The universe wasn’t just toying with me...it was giving me a pat on the back, laughing in my face, and then dousing me in gasoline before tossing a lit match.

I stared at that name for what felt like hours. It was like seeing a ghost. The kind you want to smash with a chair and send back to hell.

Amelia Mercier Romano.

His fiancée. His wife. The woman in that photo, the one who smiled like she owned the whole damn world.

And apparently, she’s the one who wants to divorce Zane Romano now.

“This can’t be real,” I whispered, laughing.

It felt too… poetic. Too dramatic. Like fate got bored and decided to write its own soap opera just for fun.

I read her letter slowly. The tone was formal. Diplomatic. A little… cold, even. But underneath the polished language, there was tension. A sharp undercurrent you could almost feel. And after years of reading hundreds of legal statements, I know one thing for sure:

This woman is hiding something. Or someone’s hiding something from her.

Amelia’s requests were crystal clear:

Private, confidential legal consultation.

A discreet divorce from her husband, Zane Romano.

A non-disclosure agreement to ensure no one, not even other lawyers in my firm, would know she came to me.

Oh, and one more thing: She requested me.

Specifically.

She wrote: “I want to be represented by Dianna Rosa. Personally. No one else.”

Funny, isn’t it? Four years ago, I couldn’t breathe when I saw her name pop up on Zane’s phone. Now she’s knocking on my door, asking me to save her.

I don’t know why Amelia wants to leave Zane. I don’t know why she chose me. And I sure as hell don’t know if this is divine irony or human sabotage.

But if this isn’t fate screwing with me, I don’t know what is.

+++++++++

There’s an unspoken rule I’ve enforced since four years ago: Never G****e Zane Romano.

Not on a rainy night. Not while drunk.

And definitely not after reading his wife’s divorce request.

And yet—

Here I am.

Wearing a gray hoodie, no makeup, hair in a lazy bun, and fingers hesitating over my MacBook keyboard while staring at an empty G****e search bar like it’s a trap I’m fully aware of and stepping into anyway.

I stared at the screen. Then muttered, “Okay, G****e. Show me how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

I typed: Zane Romano + Amelia Mercier, Zane Romano married, Zane Romano cheating

Because if I’m going to fall, might as well swan dive straight into hell.

Search results flooded in instantly.

First photo: Zane in a black suit, standing in front of a private jet that clearly belonged to the Romanos. His arm around Amelia’s waist, and she looked like she just walked off a Vogue editorial. Sleek, composed, lethal.

Headline: “The Power Couple of the Decade: Inside the Private But Glamorous World of the Romanos.”

I rolled my eyes. “Private but glamorous? Sounds like a perfume and a PR-laundered lie.”

Click.

The articles were syrupy enough to give me a cavity. They were the perfect couple who “never flaunted their love” but somehow always looked flawless.

Their home in Capri was called The Nest. Amelia kept a low profile as a children’s cancer foundation ambassador. Zane ran Romano Oil’s expansion in Southeast Asia.

No kids. No pregnancy rumors. No comments about starting a family.

Scroll.

Page three : things got messier. Gossip blogs. Whispers. Shadows in polished lives.

“Zane Romano Spotted with Mystery Blonde in St. Moritz — Where Was Amelia?”

“Romanos on the Rocks? Rumors Swirl After Separate Arrivals at Milan Gala.”

“Power Couple or Just PR?”

I laughed. “So… you cheated too, huh, Zane?”

One photo showed him leaning in toward a blonde whose face was blurred, but his hand rested far too comfortably on her lower back for a man defending the legacy of one of the richest families in the world.

I raised a brow. “Well. Still slippery as ever.”

Another showed him leaving a five-star London restaurant with a redhead who was definitely not Amelia. Then an older article. Two years back. An anonymous source claimed their marriage went cold within the first year. But no confirmation. No denial.

Because the Romanos don’t speak. They control the narrative.

I hugged my knees. My wine glass was nearly empty now.

It felt strange seeing his face again. Reading about his life. Peeking into a world I should’ve left behind in that hotel suite four years ago.

But here I was, still digitally stalking the ghost of a man who should’ve been dead to me.

And the worst part?

He still looked unfairly good in a damn suit.

“Jesus, Romano,” I muttered, closing my laptop. “Could you at least age like a normal person?”