CHAPTER 217: NINE WAYS TO SAY YES: THE PLANNING [PART II]

The meeting happened that afternoon in my private lounge. Aria showed up with her hair in a messy bun, an oversized sweater drowning her frame, and the exact level of sass I’d expected. She barely glanced at me before zeroing in on Cam, who was trying to look nonchalant while leaning against the bar.

"Walton. Cameron," she said, her voice dripping with mock formality. "To what do I owe the pleasure of being summoned to the evil corporate overlord’s lair? Did you finally decide to bore my best friend to death with some big analysis and need me to plan the funeral?"

"Aria," I said calmly, gesturing to a couch. "Thank you for coming."

"I’m here for Izzy, not for you," she shot back, though she did sink into the plush velvet.

Cam bristled. "Some of us have manners, you know."

Aria gave him a slow, deliberate smirk. "And some of us have personalities. Funny how that works out." She turned her full attention to me, her playful demeanor sharpening into something more serious. "Okay, in-law. Spill. You said you had a ’Level-Omega emergency concerning Bella’ and that I was being ’conscripted.’ I live for drama, so here I am. What did you break?"

"Nothing," I said coolly. "I require your assistance with a... project."

Aria raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "A project involving my best friend that requires the input of her hopeless romantic other half? Don’t tell me. You want to propose."

I simply nodded. Cam choked on his coffee.

Aria’s entire demeanor shifted. Her eyes widened, a brilliant, genuine smile erasing her bored facade. "Oh my god. Seriously? Finally! I was wondering when your cold, calculating heart was going to catch up with the rest of you. Okay. Details. Tell me everything."

She leaned forward, all business now. The business of romance. "First rule," she declared, pointing a stern finger at Cam. "You," she said, "are on mute. Your ideas are probably terrible and involve either explosions or spreadsheets. Am I wrong?"

Cam opened his mouth, then closed it, looking personally victimized.

"He suggested a staged kidnapping," I supplied dryly.

She shuddered in theatrical horror, wrapping her arms around herself. "Men. Honestly. No, no, no." She waved a dismissive hand, as if physically batting away the sheer idiocy of the idea. "Isabella would have an actual panic attack, and then she’d kill you both with a well-chosen, passive-aggressive comment that would haunt you for the rest of your days. This needs to be epic, but intimate. Grand, but personal. Like the season finale of a show that gets a perfect 10-star rating and makes everyone weep with joy."

She took over the room completely, pacing the room while Cam and I became her reluctant assistants. Her energy filled every corner, her voice echoing with conviction as she shot down one concept after another.

"Skywriting?" she scoffed, glancing up at the ceiling as if imagining the words traced in smoke. "Cliché. We’re not in a nineties rom-com."

"A private concert with her favorite band?" I offered, recalling a file I had compiled on Isabella’s preferences.

"Trying too hard," she countered without missing a beat. "It says ’I have a lot of money,’ not ’I know your soul.’"

"A trip to the most romantic city in the world?" Cam ventured, having apparently decided his mute sentence was over.

Aria stopped pacing and pinned him with a wither look. "Unoriginal. The most romantic city in the world? Groundbreaking. Adrien is not a tourist in his own love story, Cameron. He’s the male lead. Act like it."

She resumed her pacing, her brow furrowed in concentration, a general mapping out her final assault.

"It has to be here," she finally declared, stopping in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the mansion’s sprawling grounds. "This is your home. Her home. It needs to happen in a place that’s already yours together."

Her gaze drifted downwards, past the manicured lawns and the ancient oak tree, and fell upon the enormous, infinity-edge pool that glittered like a cut jewel under the afternoon sun. The water was perfectly still, a mirror reflecting the vast, cloudless sky.

An idea began to form in my mind, not born of logic or strategy, but from a quiet, intuitive place that Isabella had unlocked within me. It was elegant, simple, and overwhelmingly mine.

"The pool," I said, and both of them turned to me, surprised by my sudden input.

Aria’s eyes, following my gaze, lit up with understanding. The gears were turning, her creative mind seizing the raw material and beginning to refine it. "At night..." she breathed.

"Filled with flowers," I continued, picturing it.

Aria’s face broke into a grin of pure creative ecstasy. "Floating candles. Thousands of them. A sea of light on the water. And flowers... petals, not whole flowers, on the dark water, spelling it out."

"Marry Me," I finished for her.

It was perfect. A private, controlled environment. A grand romantic gesture without the vulgarity of a public display. It was ours.

Aria clapped her hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that sealed the plan. "Yes," she said, her voice filled with a triumphant satisfaction. "That. We do that."

We set the date for a Friday, a month from then. It would give us time to plan, but more importantly, it would give Isabella time. I want her to recover from all those tiring occurrence that had happened, and I wanted her strong, healthy, and completely radiant. Nothing would mar this day.

The only remaining logistical hurdle was the ring. I couldn’t ask Aria—Isabella would know something was up immediately. I needed her exact size, and I would not guess.

A week later, I found my opportunity. She was asleep in our bed, lost to the world, one hand resting on the silk sheets beside her. The moonlight painted her in shades of silver and shadow, and for a long moment, I just watched her breathe. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, a masterpiece of calm in my world of chaos.

Moving with a stealth I typically reserved for more dangerous endeavors, I retrieved my small, metal ring sizer from my valet box. The cool, connected loops felt alien in the warmth of our bedroom. I knelt beside the bed, my own breathing shallow. I slid the sizer over her ring finger, my touch as light as a whisper. Gently, I tested one size, then the next, my heart hammering against my ribs with an absurd intensity. Finally, one slipped on perfectly—snug enough not to fall off, loose enough for comfort. Size six. The final piece of data was acquired.

The next day, I didn’t just buy a ring.

I commissioned a legacy.

My private jet touched down in Palermo. I was ushered into a nondescript building that belied the genius within. My jeweler, an old man named Elio whose discretion was matched only by his artistry, greeted me with a silent nod. He had designed pieces for reclusive royalty, for paranoid billionaires, for ghosts who preferred their wealth untraceable.

I gave him a singular instruction: create a collection. Nine diamond rings. Each must be a masterpiece, each with a different setting, a different metal, a different mood. They must stand alone, yet together, they would form a symphony of devotion. He understood immediately, his ancient eyes gleaming with the challenge.

There would be yellow gold, for sunny days and the casual, brilliant warmth of her smile.

White gold, for elegant evenings and the subtle fire she carried into every room.

Rose gold, or romantic anniversaries and whispered promises.

Platinum, for strength, for the permanence of the vow I was about to make.

Silver, for her beautiful simplicity, her honesty, and the clarity she gave me.

Black gold. For the secrets we keep and the world we’ve built against the darkness. A silent, unyielding promise of my protection.

A band of carved jade, for the serenity she gifted my soul.

A band paved entirely in diamonds, for a brilliance that mirrored her own, beyond measure.

And finally, one with a pearlescent inlay, for the quiet, ethereal glow of moonlight—like the way she looked when she slept.

Each ring would be set with a flawless, impossibly rare diamond, cut to reflect light the way her laughter did—unexpected, dazzling, and utterly unforgettable.

The plan was a quiet one, known only to me. Each was designed not only to reflect a facet of Isabella’s spirit, but to match whatever she might wear on any given day. On the night of the proposal, I would observe her ensemble and select the ring that matched it perfectly. A seamless gesture. A detail she might not even notice at first—but when she did, it would speak volumes.

And then, every month after, on the anniversary of our engagement, I would give her another.

A second proposal. A third. A ninth.

Not to ask again, but to remind her.

That I would choose her again.

That I would plan for her again.

That I would love her in every shade she wore.

By the ninth month, she would have them all.

A collection not of jewelry, but of time. Of intention. Of us.

Cameron called it obsessive. Aria cried when she saw the sketches.

I called it necessary.

Because Isabella is a woman I would chose again and again, in every shade, in every season, in every possible way.