Signed, Sealed, Completely Screwed

Five years later.

The Bali sun was ruthless.

I was sprawled out on a rattan lounger on the back porch, wearing my favorite black bikini that was aggressively unfriendly to uninvited guests. One arm was tucked under my head, the other holding a chilled glass of mango juice.

My house sat on a patch of white sand that opened directly to the Indian Ocean. Not a rental. Not a joint investment. My house. Paid in full with sweat, tears, and one insane project five years ago that, by some miracle, turned into a launching pad.

Funny how it all started with one lost Australian socialite who wandered into the flower shop I used to work at part-time. She needed a wedding planner in a week because the last one ran off with the lighting guy.

I told her I could do it. Even though, the only thing I’d successfully planned at that point was a resignation letter and an escape suitcase out of New York.

But somehow, Maya Moguel turned out to be disturbingly good at turning chaos into something I*******m-worthy.

And the rest... was history and administrative hell with wealthy clients who wanted Disney movie weddings on cartel budgets.

“Sienna, stop eating sand! You are not an ostrich!”

The little girl turned around fast, both hands full of sand, plastic toy spoons raised in the air.

“This is chocolate ice cream!”

Angela stood a few feet away, looking half-crazed. “She kicked me out of her kitchen because I was ‘too loud,’ and told me to sit down and shut up.”

Sienna pointed at Angela. “She doesn’t understand fine dining!”

I set down my mango juice and sat up straight. “If you eat sand again, Mommy swears I’ll hose you down. And not because you’re hot.”

Angela, her babysitter, flopped onto a bean bag with a dramatic sigh. “She’s got boss energy. Like, mafia CEO level.”

“She’s my kid,” I said calmly.

Angela rolled her eyes “Genetic crime.”

I leaned back again, trying to enjoy the sea breeze, it lasted about three seconds.

Sienna crawled onto my lap, plopping her chubby, sweaty, sand-covered body across my legs. “Mommy,” she said with terrifying seriousness, “I want to be a mermaid. Tomorrow!"

“I have to work.”

“Work is boring.”

I pinched her cheek. “Boring keeps the roof from leaking when it rains.”

I glanced at her back and gently pulled down her swimsuit strap. The rash was almost gone. Two days ago, she had a fever and angry red blotches all over her skin. I nearly passed out when the doctor said it was a chlorine allergy, from the pool at our client’s ultra-luxury hotel.

Turns out they hadn’t changed the water in three weeks.

But of course, my daughter swam for three hours straight. Said she was ‘training to be a full-time mermaid.’

“Sienna,” I whispered, stroking her hair, “no swimming for a week, okay?”

“You are mean,” she mumbled, hugging my leg tighter.

Before her telenovela-level drama could escalate, the sliding glass door slammed open.

Catalina stormed in, my assistant. “There is a God in heaven, and a massive crisis in our wedding folder!”

Sienna groaned. “She’s too loud. Mommy, please... make her go away…”

Angela moved closer. “Come on, Mermaid. Let’s find a popsicle.”

But Sienna clung tighter.

Catalina tried to yank the beach blanket out from under her. “Maya, this is about cash flow!”

Sienna looked her dead in the eye… then bit Catalina’s butt. No hesitation. Catalina screamed. “SIENNA!”

Sienna took off running, laughing her head off.  “You deserved it!”

Catalina stood frozen, clutching her butt. But instead of losing it, she exhaled, closed her eyes, and started chanting, “Breathe in... breathe out... honor the space around you... you are calm... you are light…”

I almost pulled a muscle trying not to laugh. “Did you go on another meditation retreat?”

“Yes, and it was expensive!” she snapped, pointing at the iPad on the table. “Now sit. Open this. We got a new client. Big one.”

I frowned, taking the iPad and opening the file her agency had forwarded.

It was cleanly formatted. Client logo. Color scheme. Location. Budget. Guest count. All the usual stuff for a high-end project.

Nicholas De Castello & Vittoria Alfieri.

My heart stopped for half a second.

“No,” I whispered, my fingers tightening on the edges of the iPad.

Catalina was sipping that ridiculous infused water she always carried. “Funny thing,” she said, balancing the glass on her thigh, “apparently he run a giant mining company.”

I said nothing.

“And he’s marrying his secretary. Who, oh, just so happens to be the youngest daughter of one of those crazy-rich Italian families.”

I swallowed.

“You know him?” she finally asked. Then her face shifted. Her lips parted. “Oh my God.”

I turned away, toward the ocean, the sky....anything but the truth in front of me.

Catalina sat up straight. “Maya. MAYA. Tell me this isn’t that Nicholas. Please tell me this is some other guy. An evil twin. A fake identity. AI-generated. Anything.”

I closed my eyes. “It’s him.”

Catalina’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God…”

“Yeah.”

“And he married your ex-assistant. The one who got promoted to be his secretary—”

“Yeah.”

Catalina slapped her hand over her mouth. “I already signed the contract. Took the deposit.”

I handed the iPad back to her. “Decline. Refund it. Cancel the whole thing.”

She shook her head fast. “I… I can’t.”

My eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You were in the hospital for two days with Sienna, remember? That’s when their email came in. You told me, and I quote, ‘If it’s urgent, just take whatever’s important. I’m focusing on my kid right now.’ So I… I signed it. Took the deposit. It’s already in. Six million dollars.”

I closed my eyes. “Catalina…”

“And they… um, they’re… already on their way here. They’ll be here by this afternoon.”

I stood up. “WHAT?!”

Catalina took a step back. “I’m sorry! I thought you were over him! I thought you’d be happy about landing a famous client! I didn’t know it was that Nicholas! I thought Nicholas like...I DON’T KNOW... Nicholas Sparks? Nicholas Hoult? Nicholas Cage?!”

:::

Putting Sienna to bed tonight was a test of divine-level patience. She had energy like a nuclear reactor, even after running wild with Angela all afternoon and throwing a tantrum because her doll’s hair “wouldn’t curl like Mommy’s.”

It took three storybooks, two fake bathroom trips, one lullaby, and a serious threat to confiscate all her unicorn toys if she didn’t "close her eyes and play dead like Sleeping Beauty."

Now, finally, she was out. Lying face down in a sea of stuffed animals and pastel pillows, her messy brown hair falling over her chubby cheek.

I stood in the doorway for a moment. Just to make sure she was really asleep. Then I exhaled and gently closed the door.

My bedroom was dark when I stepped in, lit only by moonlight pouring through the large window that faced the ocean. The night breeze carried the scent of salt and the frangipani tree blooming in the yard.

I crawled into bed.

And this bed was usually comforting. Thick mattress, high-thread-count linen, those cold pillows I had custom-ordered from a hotel supplier. But tonight, nothing felt right.

I stared at the ceiling. And damn it, I couldn’t shut my eyes.

I couldn’t make sense of it. The same man who told me to keep our relationship a secret, like I was some contagious skin disease. The man who treated me and the pregnancy like a stain on his bright, shiny future.

And now?

He was marrying my replacement. Another secretary.

But this time, there was no shame. No secrecy. No whispered threats about "the future of the De Castello Group."

No cold suggestions to "take care of the situation before my father finds out" — and by situation, he meant our child.

Our child.

I closed my eyes. But that just made the voices louder.

They replayed everything.

Back then, I thought I lost because I was a nobody. Just an employee. Just a regular woman who made the mistake of falling in love with a man who didn’t have space in his life for a heart.

But turns out, it wasn’t about who I was.

The problem was never me.

Nicholas could love a secretary.

Just not me.

And if that doesn’t punch your pride right in the gut, I don’t know what does.