Amore mio 2

80, part 2.

Fransisc's P.O.V.

I stood quietly on the balcony of my bungalow, my hands resting on the smooth, sun-warmed wooden railing as the gentle morning breeze drifted in from the ocean, carrying with it the mingled scents of salt, tropical blossoms, fresh greenery, and the faint sweetness of frangipani that bloomed throughout the resort. The air itself felt alive—clean, warm, touched by paradise.

The afternoon rays of sunlight spilt across Bora Bora like liquid gold.

The lagoon stretched endlessly before me, impossibly clear, every shade of turquoise and sapphire blending seamlessly together. The water shimmered beneath the rising sun, each tiny ripple catching the light until the entire ocean looked as though thousands of diamonds had been scattered across its surface. Above it, the sky slowly awakened, pale pink melting into soft lavender before giving way to brilliant blue.

It was peaceful, beautiful, sacred.

My gaze lowered toward the private stretch of shoreline below my bungalow.

The ceremony was slowly coming to life.

Florists moved with practised precision around the altar, gently rearranging ivory peonies, delicate orchids, and sprays of baby's breath until every bouquet appeared as though nature itself had arranged it. They stepped back, examined every angle, then returned to adjust a single blossom by barely a fraction.

Perfection.

Nothing less.

Nearby, decorators gave the final touches to the venue. Flowing ivory fabrics danced gracefully in the ocean breeze, their movement soft and elegant, while crystal lanterns hung from polished wooden arches waiting for dusk, when thousands of tiny candles would transform the shoreline into something magical.

Rows of pristine white chairs stood perfectly aligned, facing the altar that overlooked the endless ocean.

Every ribbon was straightened.

Every flower inspected.

Every lantern polished.

Every detail scrutinised.

Because today deserved perfection because today my son would marry his wife again.

Eighteen years.

Eighteen extraordinary years of marriage.

Eighteen years of waking beside the same woman, of choosing her, protecting her, laughing with her, growing alongside her, building a family together.

Eighteen years filled with joy and sorrow, victories and failures, quiet mornings and sleepless nights, whispered promises, difficult conversations, forgiveness, healing, passion, patience, and unwavering devotion.

Eighteen years that had transformed two young people into something almost mythical.

A marriage that had never stopped growing.

I found myself smiling before I even realised it.

A slow smile, a quiet one, the kind that rose from somewhere deep within my soul.

Because another morning surfaced in my memory.

Thirty-eight years ago.

Back then, I had been a very different man: younger, harder, colder. I believed emotions clouded judgment, that duty outweighed affection, that powerful alliances built empires while love was merely an unexpected luxury.

I remembered sitting across from Juan.

Two fathers.

Two leaders.