Six Weeks With Mr Moretti

The email arrived at 4:17 a.m. I know that because I was still awake. Still sitting on the floor of my apartment with my laptop and a cup of coffee. Still staring at the photographs lying face-down on the coffee table. Three years. Three years with Ethan. Three years reduced to blurry pictures sent to my mailbox a month ago from someone with no image, address, or name. Just a photograph, and the message: Thought you should know. I laughed. Not because it was funny, because it wasn't. The woman in Ethan's lap had certainly thought so. Outside my apartment window, Manhattan glittered beneath the darkness like a thousand tiny lies. It was a restless sea of neon lights and towering concrete. I could hear the yellow cabs buzzing through the dark streets down below, chasing the midnight energy of a city that never really sleeps. My laptop chimed, bringing me back to my tragic reality. Another email. I almost ignored it. Instead, I clicked. My eyes skimmed the subject line. Exclusive Assignment Opportunity: Lucas Moretti. I frowned. Even I'd heard of Lucas Moretti. Travel mogul. Resort owner. The man whose name appeared on magazine covers almost as often as luxury destinations themselves. The email continued. Six-week private voyage through the Mediterranean. Exclusive access. All expenses paid. Feature rights reserved exclusively to West Magazine. I sat up straighter. Then I saw the final figure attached to the contract. My heartbreak paused long enough to appreciate the number. "Well," I muttered to the empty apartment. "Either this is fate or a very expensive distraction." I clicked the attachment and a sleek PDF opened on my screen. Six weeks aboard the Aurora. Private yacht. Mediterranean itinerary. Exclusive access to Lucas Moretti. The words looked unreal, like something I'd have laughed at a month ago. Back when I still believed my life was heading somewhere predictable. Back when I still thought Ethan and I were getting married in three weeks time as planned. I picked up one and glanced at it. The woman on his lap had perfect teeth. I hated her immediately, one month aside. Then I hated myself for caring again. My gaze returned to the contract. Santorini. Mykonos. Amalfi. Monaco. Dubrovnik. Capri. The names rolled through my mind like a familiar melody. Most people saw destinations. I saw stories. Santorini wasn't whitewashed buildings and blue domes.It was a volcanic wound dressed up as paradise. Monaco wasn't glamour. It was what happened when wealth became architecture. Amalfi wasn't colorful houses on cliffs. It was proof that human beings would build homes in impossible places simply because the view was worth it. That was the problem with being a travel writer. The longer you did it, the harder it became to see places the way everyone else did. You stopped collecting photographs. You started collecting truths. And most truths were uglier than postcards. I kept reading. The compensation package nearly made me choke on my coffee. I reread the figure three times. Then a fourth. My editor had once described freelance journalism as "professional begging with occasional glamour." This assignment alone could pay my rent for a year. I looked around my apartment. The stack of unpaid bills on the counter. The half-packed boxes from the move Ethan never helped finish. The silence. God, the silence. My phone buzzed. The screen lit up with my editor's name. Maya. Of course. She had the timing of a stalker. I answered, putting it on speaker. "You've seen it." Not even a greeting. Classic Maya. I guess she was the one that sent the first email I ignored. "I've seen it." "And?" she queried. I could see her raised eyebrows from where I sat. I leaned back against the couch. "And I think somebody accidentally added an extra zero." She laughed. "No extra zero." "Six weeks on a billionaire's yacht?" "Mm-hmm." "Exclusive access?" "Mm-hmm." "All expenses paid?" "Still mm-hmm." She mused. I narrowed my eyes. "What's the catch?" "There it is." "There is always a catch." Maya sighed dramatically. "Lucas Moretti rarely grants interviews." "Rarely?" I asked, fiddling with the teaspoon in the coffee-cup. "As in almost never." That got my attention. People like Moretti loved publicity. Their faces were usually plastered across magazine covers beside words like visionary and mogul. "Then why me?" A pause. Just long enough to feel deliberate. "He requested you." My stomach tightened. Maya must be kidding me. "What?" "He specifically requested Aria West." I sat upright. The apartment suddenly felt smaller. "That's impossible." "Apparently not." I stared at the glowing city outside my window. Thousands of windows. Thousands of lives. And somewhere among them was a man I'd never met requesting me by name. "Do you know him?" Maya asked. "No." "Have you interviewed him before?" "No." "Written anything about him?" I hesitated. Three years ago. A short feature. One article buried in a luxury travel magazine. Nothing significant. Nothing I could imagine remembering. Yet somehow Lucas Moretti had. Interesting. Very interesting. "You should take it," Maya said quietly. I knew she saw it as a frigging opportunity to forget the scum, as she calls him. I looked again at the photographs on the table. At the future I'd been building. At the man who'd burned it down. Then I looked at the itinerary. Six weeks. Four countries. An ocean between me and everything I'd lost. For the first time in months, something stirred inside me. Not happiness. Not excitement. Curiosity. And curiosity had always been my downfall. "I'll take it," I said. The smile in Maya's voice was immediate. "I knew you would." I ended the call and sat alone in the dark, the email squashing the thoughts of my ruined life. Somewhere beyond the Atlantic, a man named Lucas Moretti was waiting. At the time, I thought I was accepting an assignment. I had no idea I was stepping into the most important story of my life.