The Missing Bride

Guests began arriving one by one, like elegant waves scented with expensive perfume and socialite ego.

Designer gowns fluttered with pride in the warm tropical breeze. Italian-tailored suits gleamed under the golden lighting I had obsessed over for the past two months. Camera flashes started popping from every corner. Local media, and international press lined up with microphones and zoom lenses.

I stood on the edge of the venue, headset in my ear, clipboard in hand, and… a heartbeat that was speeding out of control. Because something felt wrong.

Less than thirty minutes before the ceremony was set to begin. And the bridal suite… was empty.

Vittoria hadn’t been seen since morning. No one saw her leave the hotel. Her phone was off. Her driver was clueless. Her hairstylist was sitting in the corner of the dressing room, sipping wine straight from the bottle like a war widow.

I scanned my team. “Did you check her room? The makeup area? Back kitchen? Restrooms?”

One of my assistants nodded. “We even checked the spa, Boss. Nothing. The place is completely empty.”

I swallowed. Okay. The panic was starting to crawl up my back like cold sweat. “Call her manager again. Call the hotel. Anyone who might know anything.”

“Still no answer. Her phone’s off.”

Shit.

Nicholas was standing a few feet away, talking to a few people. His face was calm, collected.

I jumped when someone yanked me back by the arm. I turned around, ready to unleash hell on whoever thought today was a good day to touch me without warning.

And then I saw his face.

Bianchi.

Always polished, always composed..now pale.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled me toward the far side of the venue. We passed through white curtains, into the back storage room used only for catering. Nicholas came in through the other entrance, his brows slightly raised, but he followed with quick strides.

“Bianchi, what the—” I started.

“Please. Wait.” His voice was heavy.  He shut the door. Turned toward us. And finally, with a short breath and a low voice, he said, “Vittoria was found unconscious.”

I froze.

“Where?” Nicholas asked, his voice sharp and cold.

“Island hospital. About an hour ago.”

I almost threw this clipboard at someone’s head. “What do you mean unconscious?” I snapped.

Bianchi looked at me, then at Nicholas, then down at the floor like he was counting his breaths. “She was heavily intoxicated... after the bachelorette party last night. According to the report... she left the hotel before sunrise. Alone. She decided to go swimming in the ocean.”

“Swimming?” I choked. “Is she insane?”

“She dove in.”

Nicholas said nothing. His jaw was clenched tight.

“A local fisherman found her floating. She was already turning blue. Barely breathing. They rushed her to the nearest clinic. Now... she’s in a coma.”

Coma.

The word dropped into the room like a bullet that hadn’t exploded yet.

I gripped the edge of the stainless steel table behind me. “So... no bride. No ceremony. No—”

“There are two hundred guests outside,” Bianchi cut in. “And... the press.”

Nicholas exhaled deeply, like he was absorbing the blow. Then, with terrifying calm, he adjusted his shirt cuffs and leaned against the wall.

“How many people know?” he asked.

“None yet,” Bianchi answered. “We can... keep it quiet for now..”

“For how long? Until someone realizes the bride’s missing and starts a livestream?” I snapped.

Nicholas stayed silent.He stood in the corner of the room, his back against the concrete wall, arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor like he was counting every tile crack.

I turned to Bianchi, my heart pounding. “Okay, we need a way out,” I said quickly. “We can announce a postponement. Or... reframe this into a gala dinner. A charity event. Say it’s all part of the foundation launch. That’ll calm the media and buy us time.”

I was already unlocking my phone, jotting notes.

“We’ll get PR in. Rewrite the program. Have the decor team change the altar backdrop into a stage design. Prep some dummy posts for the family’s social—”

“There’s a faster solution,” a voice said behind me.

I turned to him.

Nicholas was looking at me now. Fully. Directly. And I... I wished he wasn’t. That look was like a bullet. Cold, quiet, and right on target.

“Get yourself ready to replace my bride.”

One sentence.

Then, like salt on a wound that never healed, he added, "I’ll pay double."

I froze. For a second, the world muted itself and a laugh slipped out of me. Bitter. Dry.

Because this was... out of my fucking mind.

"Sorry, what did you just say?"

"Double," he repeated, his voice flat. "To replace Vittoria."

Like I was an item on my own wedding planner inventory list. Like I was... the last resort he could toss onto an altar.

I laughed again. "You’re joking."

He didn’t answer. Just stared. Cold and quiet.

I lifted my chin. "There isn’t a number high enough to get me to stand at the altar with you, Mr. De Castello."

He kept looking. Upright. Still. Dripping in arrogance I knew too well.

I stepped forward, my voice rising. "You think I’m still that girl? The idiot who memorized your mother’s birthday just to feel accepted? The one who made your morning coffee and sorted your meetings cleaner than any assistant ever could? You think I’d stand beside you just because you told me to?"

Silence. But something flickered in his eyes. A crack. A glitch in that icy calm.

"You can’t say no."

"I am saying no."

He nodded. Then he straightened a little. Took one step closer. Just one. But it was enough to make the air feel tighter.

"Your team arranged the venue for last night’s bachelorette party."

My brow furrowed. "It was a standard reservation. A beach club. I didn’t even handle the details. The coordinator—"

"You’re still liable."

"Don’t start—"

"If I speak to a lawyer right now," he cut in, "and say the bride was injured due to your team's negligence…"

I stared at him. My mouth opened.

He kept going, voice soft, almost casual. "I could frame that as attempted harm. At the very least, gross professional negligence leading to material and reputational damage."

I… couldn’t breathe. "You’re fucking out of your mind!"

He only raised an eyebrow. No anger on his face. No emotion. Just a thin, terrifying patience. "This isn’t personal," he said quietly. "It’s a solution. You choose: Be my substitute bride, or pay me 20 times the deposit as a penalty?"