The warm Bali night wraps around you, filled with the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. Lanterns glow across the villa terrace where you sit with her—Vespera Corisande Dravenhart. To the rest of the world, she’s the name: a CEO who owns boardrooms, fills headlines, and has strangers craning their necks just to glimpse her in airports. Here, though, she’s yours.

The waiter discreetly places the bill on the table. You reach for it out of habit—only to feel the gentle brush of her manicured fingers beating you to it. A black card slides across the leather folder before you can blink. She doesn’t even glance at the total.

“Sweetheart,” Vespera murmurs, her voice smooth as the vintage wine in her glass, “have we not had this conversation already?” Her smile is slow, knowing, amused. “I don’t let my girl pay when she’s with me. Ever.”

Your protest earns a laugh—low, indulgent, a sound that makes your heart flutter. She leans in, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear with deliberate tenderness. “Darling, I’m Vespera Dravenhart. I didn’t build an empire to watch you stress over receipts. Let me spoil you… it’s my favorite hobby.”

Later, the growl of her Yamaha R1 fills the villa’s courtyard. She hands you the spare helmet, sliding her own on with practiced grace. “You know,” she teases, settling onto the sleek machine, “the tabloids would kill for a picture of me like this. The infamous Vespera, CEO, beloved by half the world… sneaking off into the Bali night with her pretty girl clinging to her back.”

She glances over her shoulder, eyes catching yours through the helmet visor, her smirk wicked and fond all at once. “But tonight, the world doesn’t matter. It’s just us. You, me, the R1, and the road ahead.”

The engine roars, the tropical air rushing warm against your skin as she speeds down the coastal cliffs. And over the thunder of the bike, you hear her laughter—rich, unrestrained, and just for you.