Tangled

The Mediterranean breeze carried the scent of wild rosemary and expensive champagne across the private cove of Isola Bella. Julian adjusted his cufflinks, his heart racing faster than the speedboat that had brought them here. For three years, Elena had been his world. Today, on Valentine’s Day, he spared no expense. He had hired his uncle’s prestigious London-based firm to transform this Italian outcrop into a floral cathedral. ​"It’s like a dream, Julian," Elena breathed, her silk dress fluttering. ​In the center of a stone terrace overlooking the Ionian Sea stood a towering pergola of white wisteria and crystal chandeliers. It looked like a masterpiece. ​Hidden behind a marble pillar, Siena, the firm’s newest recruit, bit her lip in nervous excitement. She had flown in from London two days early, meticulously placing every candle. She was talented, but she had a localized gravitational field that seemed to attract chaos. She had already tripped over a power cable twice that morning, but now, everything looked perfect. ​Julian led Elena to the center of the terrace. He dropped to one knee, the velvet box snapping open to reveal a diamond that caught the dying sunlight. ​"Elena," he began, his voice thick with emotion. "From the streets of Paris to the cliffs of Sicily, every moment with you has been a gift. Will you make me the happiest man in Europe and marry me?" ​Elena’s eyes welled up. She opened her mouth to speak the word that would change their lives. "Julian, I—" ​At that exact moment, Siena noticed a tiny, rebellious vine of wisteria dangling too close to a candle flame. “Oh no, the aesthetics!” she whispered. She lunged forward to tuck it back, but her heel caught in the ancient stone crevice. ​As she stumbled, her hand reflexively grabbed the main tension wire disguised as a decorative garland. ​CRACK. ​The sound echoed off the cliffs. The magnificent pergola, weighted by three hundred pounds of wet floral foam and heavy crystal, groaned and buckled. In a blurred cascade of white petals and shattering glass, the entire structure collapsed directly onto the couple. ​"My God!" Julian yelled, pinned under a heavy timber beam. ​Elena let out a muffled scream, her designer gown soaked in the water from the floral tubes and covered in crushed wisteria. The romantic sunset was suddenly replaced by the smell of extinguished candles and cold debris. ​Siena crawled out from behind the pillar, her hair a mess of leaves, looking utterly bewildered. She hadn't even realized she’d pulled the wire; she thought a freak gust of wind had destroyed her hard work. ​"I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?" Siena cried, rushing over and immediately tripping over a fallen chandelier, sending a shower of glass shards skittering across the stone. ​Julian pushed a piece of wood off his shoulder, his face turning a deep, furious red. "Are you kidding me? This was supposed to be the most important moment of my life!" ​"You ruined it!" Elena shrieked, wiping streaks of mud and crushed petals from her face. "You’ve ruined everything! Who even are you?" ​"I... I’m the coordinator," Siena stammered, her voice trembling. "It just... it just fell! I was trying to help!" ​"Help?" Julian stood up, ignoring the ring that had tumbled into a c***k in the floor. "This is gross negligence. I’m calling my uncle. You’re lucky if you ever work in this industry again." ​Siena stood alone amidst the wreckage of her first big project, clutching a clipboard to her chest, tears blurring her vision of the angry couple. She was innocent of any malice, but in the eyes of the man she was supposed to impress, she was a walking disaster. ~~~ The boat ride back to Taormina was arguably more disastrous than the collapse itself. The sleek, mahogany Riva speedboat, designed for champagne toasts and stolen kisses, now felt like a floating pressure cooker. ​Julian sat at the stern, his jaw so tight it looked carved from the Sicilian cliffs. His bespoke suit was damp and stained a sickly botanical green. Beside him, Elena was a portrait of ruined elegance. Her silk dress—once a shimmering cream—clung to her in wet patches, and a single white wisteria petal was still stubbornly plastered to her forehead. ​She didn't speak. She simply stared at the horizon with the cold, focused intensity of a woman calculating the cost of a dry-cleaning bill and a wasted manicure. ​Siena, meanwhile, was hunched in the smallest possible corner of the bow. She tried to maintain a "professional distance," but on a thirty-foot boat, there was nowhere to hide. Every time the hull hit a wave, she winced, terrified that her mere presence might cause the engine to explode or a rogue wave to capsatize them. ​"I have the ring," Siena whispered, her voice cracking. She reached into her pocket and held out the velvet box, which was now missing its lid and slightly damp. ​Julian didn't even look at her. "Keep it. If you drop it in the Ionian Sea, I won't be held responsible for what happens next." ~~~ ​The next morning, the Mediterranean sun was unforgivingly bright as Siena stood outside the heavy oak doors of the villa’s study. She had spent the night rehearsing her apology, but "I tripped on a thousand-year-old rock" sounded pathetic even to her own ears. ​She knocked. Julian’s voice, sharp as a razor, barked for her to enter. ​He was standing behind a desk covered in legal documents and a half-empty bottle of espresso. He looked like he hadn't slept, but his anger had moved from hot-headed shouting to a cold, clinical fury. ​"My uncle is a fair man, Siena," Julian began, not looking up from his phone. "But he is also a businessman. Do you have any idea what that 'floral cathedral' cost? Not to mention the exclusive rights to the cove?" ​"I am so incredibly sorry, Mr. Moretti," Siena said, her hands shaking behind her back. "I was trying to save the aesthetic. There was a flame, and the vine—" ​"The 'aesthetic' is currently being fished out of the tide by a salvage crew," he snapped, finally meeting her eyes. "Elena left for London this morning. She told me she needs 'space' to process the omen. She thinks the collapse was a sign from the universe that we aren't meant to be." ​Siena felt a cold pit form in her stomach. "I didn't mean to break a relationship. I just... I’m clumsy. It’s a medical marvel, really." ​Julian stood up and walked toward her. He was tall, intimidating, and smelled of expensive sandalwood and disappointment. "You aren't just clumsy, Siena. You are a liability. My uncle wanted to fire you over the phone, but I told him no." ​Siena’s eyes widened. "You did?" ​"Don't thank me," Julian said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous silk. "I told him that firing you is too easy. You are going to stay here in Sicily. You are going to personally oversee the cleanup, and then, you are going to help me fix this. You're going to help me win her back, or I will ensure your 'localized gravitational field' never sees the inside of an event space again." ​Siena swallowed hard. She was a floral designer, not a relationship therapist, and Julian Moretti looked like he was one more broken vase away from a total eclipse of the soul. ​"What do you want me to do?" she whispered. ​Julian picked up the damaged ring box from the desk. "Pack your bags. We’re going to Paris. And for God’s sake, Siena—wear flat shoes." ~~~ ​The flight to Paris was mercifully uneventful, mostly because Julian had paid for a seat for Siena three rows behind him. But the moment they landed at Charles de Gaulle, her peculiar aura of catastrophe resumed its regular programming. ​By the time they reached the ultra-chic Hotel Plaza Athénée, Siena had accidentally knocked over a luggage cart and somehow managed to get her backpack strap caught in the revolving door, forcing a team of three French bellhops to perform a tactical rescue. ​Julian stood in the center of his lavish suite, leaning against a marble fireplace, watching Siena with an expression of weary fascination. "I’m convinced you’re a secret agent sent by my competitors to dismantle my life brick by brick." ​"I’m just... adjusting to the altitude," Siena muttered, smoothing out her wrinkled skirt. She sat at a delicate Louis XV writing desk, pulling out a legal pad. "Okay. If we’re going to win Elena back, we need a strategy. Flowers aren't enough this time. You need words. Deep, soul-searching, 'I’m sorry the roof fell on you' words." ​Julian sighed, pacing the length of the room. "Fine. Tell her I love her. Tell her the collapse was an anomaly. Tell her I’ve fired the entire crew." ​"You can't say you fired everyone! That’s mean," Siena argued, her pen flying across the paper. "And it’s not romantic. You need to be vulnerable. How about this?" ​She cleared her throat and began to read with dramatic flair: ​"My dearest Elena, the wreckage of Isola Bella was nothing compared to the wreckage of my heart without you. Like the wisteria that fell, I am weighted down by the wet foam of my own regrets..." ​Julian stopped pacing. "Wet foam? You’re comparing my heart to floral supplies?" ​"It’s a metaphor, Julian! It shows I’m—I mean, you’re—grounded in the reality of the situation." ​"It’s horrific. Try again. Less botany, more passion." ​Siena chewed her lip, thinking hard. "Okay, okay. 'Elena, I am a man standing in the rain of my own mistakes, hoping you'll be my umbrella. Please let me take you to the bridge where we first met, so I can give you the sparkle you deserve without the structural failure.'" ​Julian rubbed his temples. "It’s slightly better, though the umbrella part is a bit clunky. Fine. Write it out. Use the hotel’s gold-leaf stationery. And for the love of all that is holy, Siena, do not get an ink blot on it." ​Naturally, the hotel provided a beautiful, heavy fountain pen. As Siena leaned over the desk to transcribe the final draft in her best calligraphy, she felt a surge of pride. This was her chance to make amends. She was being careful. She was being precise. ​Then, a fly—a tiny, Parisian fly—decided to land on the tip of her nose. ​Siena jerked. Her hand twitched. The fountain pen, which apparently had the internal pressure of a fire hydrant, didn't just leak; it sneezed. ​A massive, Rorschach-like splatter of midnight-blue ink exploded across the gold-leaf paper, Julian’s white suede loafers, and a significant portion of the cream-colored Persian rug. ​"Oh... oh no," Siena whispered, frozen. ​Julian looked down at his shoes. He looked at the rug. Finally, he looked at Siena. "Is that... is that the letter?" ​"It... it looks like a heart?" Siena suggested weakly, pointing at the largest ink blob. "If you squint? It’s modern. It’s edgy. It says 'my love for you is overflowing'?" ​Julian didn't yell. He didn't even sigh. He simply walked over to the minibar, took out a small bottle of gin, and unscrewed the cap. "Pack the 'overflowing' letter, Siena. We’re going to her favorite cafe in Montmartre. If we can’t win her with words, we’ll win her with sheer, pathetic persistence."