Romano, Redux

My wedding planning office—Sea & Sun—sat on the second floor of a sleek white building, surrounded by monstera plants and oversized windows that let Bali sunlight pour in without knocking. The interior was chic and clean, with just enough personal flair, like the small plaque on my desk that read: In case of emergency, pour wine, not feelings.

Catalina was already at her desk when I walked in. Her hair was half-dry, her makeup halfway done, and her eyes looked like they’d been up all night.

“Coffee?” she asked, handing me a ceramic mug that said We Plan, You Panic.

“If it’s brewed with hate and leftover gossip, I’ll take it.”

“Perfect.” She handed me a folder. “There’s a meeting this morning. The De Castello family’s team just arrived.”

The air caught in my throat. “Team?” I asked slowly. “You mean... him?”

Catalina quickly shook her head. “Nope. Not him. Not even the ex-secretary-turned-official-wife. It’s their head butler. Bianchi. Apparently, he’ll be handling all the direct communication.”

I took a deep breath..

Okay. I could handle that.

A butler...

That I could manage.

I walked to the meeting room. The door was already open, and inside sat a man in his fifties. His suit was crisp gray, his tie perfect, and his expression the kind that could probably read a financial report just by looking at it.

“Signora Moguel,” he said as he stood. “I’m Bianchi. I’ll be representing the Castello family for the entire wedding process.”

His English was nearly accentless. His manner is calm. Respectful. More like a head of intelligence than a head butler.

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. Please, have a seat.”

The meeting began.

Bianchi opened his leather folder and pulled out a set of documents printed in two languages. Classic upper-class formality. The kind of family who ordered wine from France and flowers from the Netherlands, even if the wedding was in Bali.

“We’re aiming for something intimate but exclusive,” he said. “Roughly one hundred guests. Flights and accommodations are already arranged. The extended family will be flying in from Milan and Capri. Including... the bride and groom.”

I wrote everything down. Every word. But my brain only processed two things: “the bride and groom” and “not Nicholas.” For some reason, I wasn’t ready to see that face appear again without warning.

“We’d like to hold two pre-wedding events,” Bianchi continued. “One of them being a traditional Italian dinner. But a Bali-Italian fusion is also something we’re open to. We believe you’re capable of making that blend work.”

I nodded, pretending I wasn’t zoning out. “Easy. I can prepare a theme mockup. I also work with a vendor from Tuscany who usually does dessert tables. We can combine that with local dishes like sate lilit and sambal matah in a fusion-style layout.”

“Excellent,” he said, jotting down notes. “Mr. De Castello has given me full authority. He... won’t be getting directly involved.”

That sentence was supposed to feel like relief.

And strangely enough, it did. Like oxygen finally rushing into my lungs after being held hostage.

No Nicholas. No ghosts from the past sneaking between ranunculus arrangements and someone else’s wedding.

For now... I'm safe.

:::

One month later.

Gold-embossed invitations, a shipping schedule for wine from Tuscany, VIP seating layout drafts, a moodboard for the candlelit rehearsal dinner, and bridesmaid dress sketches...all sprawled out like the aftermath of an emotional car crash.

I sat in the middle of it all, legs folded on my chair, hair in a messy bun, red pen hanging lazily from my lips.

“Where’s the file for the custom bouquet?” I shouted toward the hallway.

"It's right under your butt!" Catalina’s voice came from outside my office door, raspy with caffeine and despair.

I touched it under my butt. Oh. Right.

It’d been a month since the De Castello wedding project began, and honestly... I hadn’t thrown anyone into the ocean yet. That was already a major win.

The surprise? The person I dealt with the most wasn’t the bride. Not the wedding influencer from Rome they hired. And definitely not Nicholas De Castello himself.

It was... Bianchi.

A middle-aged man with a calm voice, heavenly attention to detail, and the aura of a monk who used to be a hitman.

For the past month, he’d worked with me on everything. No small talk. No forced jokes. No judgmental stares at the bridesmaid dresses like he knew better than the designer.

We worked in a rhythm that was strange but efficient. And this morning... he arrived early.

Even before I’d had my first full sip of coffee.

“Do you have a moment to sit, Signora?” he asked from the doorway, leather folder in hand.

I nodded and motioned to the seat across from me. “Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem,” he said, sitting down. “Just... a few things to go over before tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Nicholas’s wedding.

Two words that shouldn’t mean anything to me anymore. And yet… they still feel like shards of glass lodged in my throat every time I say them in my head.

Bianchi opened his folder, scribbled something down, then looked over at me. “Tomorrow… The entire De Castello and Alfieri family will be present. Including major shareholders and business partners.”

I nodded, trying to stay focused on the logistics. I was the wedding planner, not the ex-girlfriend erased from his official history.

“And as you may have heard... Mr. Nicholas is now officially the head of the family.”

I stayed quiet. Because I hadn’t heard a single thing about him. Five years...I made sure to shut my ears to everything De Castello.

And Bianchi? He laid it all out.

Nicholas De Castello overthrew his half-brother and took control of the De Castello Conglomerate. Lorenzo was removed from the board, his shares frozen, and Nicholas?

Nicholas became The De Castello....the untouchable figure now holding power over mining, oil, and finances worth half the GDP of a country.

“His father was strongly against the marriage to Miss Alfieri,” Bianchi added calmly. “But he insisted. Even after the takeover, his first move… was to make the relationship public.”

I blinked at him. No reaction. But something inside me twisted.

Cold. Bitter. Too familiar.

So... he loved her.

Loved her so much he went up against his own father. So bold he dragged her into the middle of a war, family and business, and crowned her with a gold ring and the world's approval.

And me? I was handed a business card to an abortion clinic and a front door that no longer opened.

Funny, isn’t it?

And now... now he’s marrying another secretary. With flower arrangements. With press coverage. With music and public blessings.

Ironic. Disgusting. And just a little bit painful.

I straightened my shoulders. Brushed the feeling off like dust from my blazer. “Thank you for the update, Mr. Bianchi. If there’s nothing else, I’ll go check on the sound system and lighting for tomorrow.”

:::