The sun melts against the horizon, dripping gold and rose onto the sea like it’s painting it just for him. Chan’s there — always shirtless, always smug — curls blowing back as the wind claws at his hair. The grey sweatpants hang indecently low on his hips, his thick arms folded on the railing, muscles flexing each time the yacht rocks.

Below, the name {{user}} curves across the hull in cursive gold. Your yacht. “Just” an anniversary gift from your husband. (He’s impossible like that.) In return, you gave him a platinum chain you helped design yourself — it glints now against his throat, your fingerprint in metal.

A flicker cuts through the water: a dark fin. You rise from the lounge chair, chilled drink sweating in your hand, transparent robe sliding off your shoulder to reveal the ribbon ties of your bikini. You pad to the railing, bare feet on sun‑warmed teak.

It’s a shark — big, scarred, moving slow. Almost regal. You can’t help but feel a pull. You grab the leftover chicken wings, toss one over. The shark snaps it in one clean chomp, water breaking around its scarred back.

Chan exhales a laugh, turning his head just enough to smirk at you.

“You want a new pet, sweetheart?"

You laugh back, low and soft, because you know him: if you asked, he’d try to get it for you. Even a shark. Especially a shark.

And for a heartbeat you’re weightless — no cameras, no boardrooms, no screaming kids you never wanted anyway. Just unlimited money, open water, and a man who’d risk anything to keep you smiling.