The wedding planner's name was Allegra, and she moved through the penthouse like a general surveying a battlefield. Her clipboard was a shield, her tablet a sword. At forty-five, with silver streaks in her dark chignon and eyes that missed nothing, she'd orchestrated the marriages of two European princes and a Hollywood icon.
"The venue is secured—Villa d'Este on Lake Como," she announced, swiping through images of the legendary 16th-century villa with its terraced gardens descending to the water. "They had a cancellation. Divine intervention or my black AmEx, whichever you prefer."
Chloe stared at the screen, the opulence a stark contrast to the simple studio where Luca had knelt before her just days before. "It's… enormous."
"It needs to be." Luca stood at the window, hands in his pockets. "They expect a spectacle. We'll give them one so dazzling they'll forget how it started."
Allegra's sharp gaze flicked between them. "The narrative, as I understand it, is 'feud turned fairy tale.' We'll lean into the symbolism. Laurent heirloom jewelry, Rossi-funded restoration of the villa's Sala dello Stucchi for the reception. A merging of legacies." She turned to Chloe. "You'll design your own wedding jewelry, of course. Something that tells your story."
"I've started," Chloe said, though the earrings on her bench felt too private, too raw, for the public eye.
"Good." Allegra made a note. "Now, the guest list. Six hundred. Including every columnist who ran the scandal story. We kill them with hospitality."
Luca nodded. "And security?"
"Tighter than the Vatican. No unauthorized cameras. No plus-ones for journalists. Isabella Moretti…" Allegra paused delicately. "She is insisting on an invitation. As a 'close family friend.'"
Luca's expression darkened. "Not a chance."
"Actually," Chloe said, surprising herself. "Invite her."
Both turned to stare at her.
"If we exclude her, she'll play the victim. She'll leak more stories from the outside." Chloe met Luca's gaze. "But if she's inside, surrounded by people who believe our story, under your watch… she's neutralized."
A slow, proud smile spread across Luca's face. "You're learning."
Allegra arched an eyebrow. "A bold gambit. I approve. Now, the dress."
Chloe had imagined something simple. Sleek. But Allegra had other ideas.
"You are not just a bride. You are a statement." She summoned her assistant, who wheeled in a garment rack holding three breathtaking gowns. "The first: Valentino, lace and illusion, classic. The second: Armani Privé, architectural, severe. The third…" She revealed a gown of layered ivory silk, seemingly simple until the light caught the thousands of hand-stitched crystals woven into the fabric like captured starlight. "This is a prototype from a young designer in Florence. No one has seen it. It has no name yet. It will be called 'The Laurent Gown' after you wear it."
Chloe reached out, her fingers brushing the delicate silk. It felt like wearing a dream. "This one."
Allegra smiled. "A wise choice. It says 'artist' not 'heiress.' Now, the final detail." She turned to Luca. "Your mother's wedding band. The press will expect you to use it."
Luca went still. The mention of his mother always did this—stripped a layer away. "It's in the safe."
"You should give it to Chloe tonight," Allegra said softly, her tactical harshness momentarily gone. "Not for the photographers. For her. So when they ask about it tomorrow, her surprise is genuine. So the tears in her eyes are real."
The room was quiet. Chloe saw the struggle in Luca's posture—the instinct to protect his last tangible connection to his mother warring with the desire to build a new one with her.
"I'll get it," he said finally, his voice rough.
When he returned, the small velvet box looked fragile in his large hands. He didn't open it in front of Allegra. He waited until she and her team had swept out, leaving them alone in the suddenly quiet penthouse.
"My father was a contractor," he said, not looking at the box. "Modest. My mother was a teacher. This," he opened the lid, revealing a simple, worn platinum band with a single tiny diamond, "was all he could afford. She never took it off. Even after he died. Even after the money came." He lifted it out. "She said its value wasn't in the stone. It was in the promise."
He took Chloe's left hand. "I bought a different ring for the public. Ten carats. Flawless. It's in the vault." He slid his mother's band onto her ring finger. It fit perfectly. "But this is the one that matters. This is the promise. Not the contract. Not the performance. This."
Tears blurred her vision. The ring was warm from his touch, from decades of love. "Luca…"
"I don't have my father's gentle heart," he whispered, his forehead leaning against hers. "Or my mother's unwavering goodness. What I have is a empire built on ice and a reputation for cruelty. But everything good left in me… I give to you. It's not much. But it's yours."
She kissed him, tasting the salt of her own tears and the coffee on his lips. It was a kiss of acceptance, of taking the broken pieces he offered and seeing the whole man they could create together.
Later, as they lay tangled in his bedsheets—their bedsheets now—the moon painted silver stripes across the floor. Her head rested on his chest, his mother's band cool against her skin.
"Are you afraid?" he asked into the darkness.
"Of the wedding? The spectacle?"
"Of me. Of what happens when the year ends and there's no contract to bind you. Of whether this," he gestured to the space between them in the dim light, "is strong enough without the artifice holding it up."
She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. In the moonlight, he looked younger. Unarmed. "The contract didn't build this, Luca. It was the wrecking ball. What we're building now… we're building it ourselves. Stone by stone."
He pulled her back down, holding her so tightly she could feel the drum of his heart against her ribs. "Then we build it fortress-strong," he murmured into her hair. "So nothing can ever tear it down."
The next morning, the world saw the first "candid" photo of the engaged couple: released by Allegra's team to a select magazine. It showed Luca and Chloe at her workbench, her hand resting over his as they examined a sketch. On her finger, clearly visible, was the simple, worn platinum band.
The headline read: "HEART OVER HEIRLOOM: Luca Rossi's Tribute to His Humble Roots."
The article gushed about the love story, the blending of families, the romantic symbolism. It made no mention of contracts or debts.
Isabella's poison had been neutralized, not by denial, but by a more compelling truth.
But as Chloe read the article, a cold trickle of unease ran down her spine. The narrative was perfect. Too perfect. They were no longer controlling the story—they were being consumed by it.
And downstairs, in the penthouse lobby, a delivery arrived. A single, long-stemmed black rose. The card read, in elegant script:
"Every fairy tale needs a villain. Can't wait for the wedding. –I."
The wolves weren't at the door anymore.
They'd been invited inside.