Bella sat still while hands moved gently around her—powder brushes, soft sponges, the quiet click of compacts being opened and shut. She could sll the delicate scent of rose water mixed with sothing sweet like vanilla every ti the makeup artist leaned closer.
Her hair was curled in soft, romantic waves and pinned up in places with tiny, sparkling hairpins that caught the light whenever she turned her head. A warm light from the mirror surrounded her like a halo, making her big brown eyes look even softer.
The stylists worked patiently, carefully—fixing stray strands, brushing a hint of color onto her lips, dabbing highlighter on her cheekbones until she glowed like morning sunlight.
When they finally stepped back, one of them whispered, "Take a look, Ma’am."
Bella slowly opened her eyes fully and turned toward the mirror.
The girl staring back at her made her breath catch in her throat.
It was her.
But also not her.
Her skin looked flawless, glowing with a gentle warmth. Her lashes brushed softly against her cheeks when she blinked. Her lips looked like delicate rose petals. And her eyes—her eyes sparkled in a way she’d never seen before, like all her hidden dreams had been dusted across her pupils.
"...Is this really ?" she whispered under her breath.
A soft laugh ca from the woman fixing the final touches on the gown behind her. "Yes, Mrs Moretti. Now, the dress."
They helped her stand, careful not to ruin her hair. When she stepped behind the folding screen, her heart raced at the sight of the gown—layers of white silk and sheer tulle, delicate lace embroidered along the sleeves and bodice, tiny pearl beads sewn by hand that glimred like little stars.
It was so beautiful... so breathtaking.
Far more beautiful than the one Jessica had once picked for her wedding. This one looked like it had been made for her alone.
When they buttoned the final tiny pearl button at her back and draped the soft, translucent veil across her shoulders, Bella turned to the mirror again.
Her hands flew to her lips, eyes wide.
She looked like... a bride from a fairytale.
A soft giggle slipped out, then a small, shy smile.
"...So pretty," she whispered to herself, just to make sure she’d really said it.
She reached out and lightly touched her reflection’s cheek with her fingertips—warm, real.
Today, she thought with a tiny spark of courage in her chest, I want him to see too.
The stylists flitted around her like careful butterflies, making the final adjustnts to her veil and smoothing every fold of the gown so that not a single thread was out of place. One gently fluffed the skirt’s layered tulle, while another checked that the tiny pearl hairpins caught the light perfectly when she turned her head.
Bella sat there, trying not to breathe too hard. She could feel her heart beating all the way up to her ears.
One of the won leaned in and whispered, "Perfect. You look perfect."
Bella bit her lip to keep the shy smile from escaping too widely. She kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, fingertips brushing the silky fabric. Every now and then she peeked at her reflection, just to convince herself it was still real.
Then, a quiet knock ca at the door.
One of the assistants cracked it open and spoke in a soft, respectful voice, "Mrs Moretti... are you ready? Sir is waiting for the photoshoot."
Bella’s breath caught in her throat.
Sir...
She touched the edge of her veil with trembling fingers, then nodded at the stylist. The woman squeezed her hand gently in encouragent.
Carefully, Bella stood up. The dress rustled like a cloud around her ankles. She took one last glance in the mirror, then lifted her chin just a little.
"...I’m ready," she whispered to herself.
And with that, she stepped toward the door, her heart fluttering like a captive bird—ready to et him on the other side.
***
Outside on the sun-drenched upper deck, the gentle sound of ocean waves mingled with the rustle of wind tugging at the edges of the white canopy they’d set up for the shoot. The crew bustled around—adjusting reflectors, testing light angles, checking floral props.
And in the middle of it all stood Leonardo.
He wore a perfectly tailored black suit—sharp lapels framing his broad shoulders, the jacket hugging his chest like it was made just for him. The fine fabric fell smoothly along his arms, each subtle shift of his biceps pulling the cloth taut in a way that made even the most focused crew mber sneak glances. The trousers were equally perfect, hugging his long legs and tapering down just enough to hint at the lean power beneath.
A single red rose sat in his breast pocket—a soft, dangerous contrast to all that stark black. His hair was styled back neatly, but a single dark strand had fallen forward onto his forehead, giving him an edge that made every woman in the crew pause for a heartbeat.
He stood tall near the railing, eyes narrowed slightly as he squinted against the sun reflecting off the sea. The breeze caught the hem of his suit jacket, making it flutter just enough to add a touch of restless, effortless power to his otherwise calm posture.
Beside him, the photographer, a middle-aged man with a cara strapped around his neck, was explaining the angles. He flipped through a small binder of reference shots, his voice steady but respectful.
"We’ll start with the classic poses by the railing, Sir—backlit by the water. Then so shots under the canopy with the flower arch. After that... I’d like to do a few close-ups—just you and her, maybe hand on the waist, a forehead touch, sothing intimate but elegant."
Leonardo’s sharp eyes flicked up from the binder to the photographer’s face. He gave a single nod, voice low and calm—yet carrying a weight that made the man straighten his shoulders imdiately.
"Nothing that looks forced," Leonardo said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt beneath his suit sleeve. "If she’s uncomfortable, you cut it."
"Of course, Sir. She’s naturally photogenic—I don’t think there will be any trouble," the photographer said quickly, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, though the breeze was cool.
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