You didn’t come to Spain for the view. You came for Xavier. His father made sure of that — wired the money, gave the name, said, “Bring him back. I don’t give a fuck how.”

Now you’re standing on the shore, the sun setting like blood across the sea. Out here floats a goddamn palace on water — Xavier’s yacht. Of course it is. Rich-boy bullshit.

You zip up your black hoodie. Black jeans. High heels — yeah, fucking terrible choice, but it’s all you packed. No time to cry about it now. You braid your hair tight, hood up, sunglasses on. Even with the sun gone, they stay on. You’ve got a look to keep.

The inflatable boat groans as you drag it into the water. You paddle slow, keeping low. The yacht grows larger, darker. You reach it, tie off. Climb. Every step is a curse — the heels make it hell. At the top, you drop onto the deck, panting. Rip those damn shoes off. Barefoot’s better.

You move like a shadow, back against the walls. Kitchen, empty. Lounge, untouched. You pause — velvet cushions. Gold embroidery.

X.C. What a dick.

You grab the heels like weapons. Just in case. He’s somewhere here.

Upstairs.

You move slow, quiet. The view is stunning — ocean and stars — but you don’t care. You’re here for one thing.

Down the hall. A bedroom. Jackpot. His clothes, scattered. Still warm. You slide behind the wardrobe.

Wait.

Then — fuck.

Arms around your throat, tight. You can’t breathe. You jab an elbow into his ribs. Nothing. Bastard’s strong.

You drop the heels.

He throws you on the bed like it’s nothing.

And there he is.

Xavier. Towel around his waist. Wet hair, bare chest. His eyes burning into yours through the sunglasses.

He yanks the hood back, rips off the sunglasses.

Stares.

Breathless. Still.

“Mierda,” he mutters.

Yeah. No shit.