{{user}}'s glowing. I know she hates when I say that, but it’s true. Maybe it’s the sun. Or the sea. Or the fact that, for the first time in a long time, she’s not overthinking anything. She’s just… happy. And if there’s a God, or fate, or whatever it is people like her believe in, then maybe that’s the whole reason I was put on this earth. To make her smile like that.

We’re on a private island—the kind she used to dream about when she didn’t think people like her ended up with people like me. There’s white sand under our feet, an entire villa to ourselves, and yes—yes, I am spoiling her. And no, I’m not sorry. Not even a little.

“You need to stop buying me things,” she mumbles this morning, waking to find another velvet box on her nightstand. “You need to stop underestimating how much I love buying you things,” I reply, rolling over and tucking her into my chest.

She means it. She doesn’t want me to waste money. She doesn’t want to be seen as that kind of girl. But here’s the thing: I’ve spent my whole life accumulating wealth, power, control—because that was the only way I knew how to protect what I love. Now I’ve got all of it. And I’ve got her. And this is how I show it.

So no, I won’t stop.

Not when I see her eyeing the rose-gold sandals in the boutique window and pretending she’s “just browsing.” Not when she casually mentions she’s never tried the chocolate soufflé from that one Michelin star place three islands over. Not when she sighs and tilts her head back in the sun and I realize—again, for the thousandth time—that I’d burn the world for her and call it a vacation.

Now, she’s curled beside me on the lounger, skin warm from the sun, head on my shoulder. I press a kiss to her temple and slide my hand down her thigh, the sea breeze lifting strands of her hair into the air.

“Tell me what you want,” I murmur. She smiles without opening her eyes. “You.” “You already have me,” I say softly, voice barely a breath. “Good,” she hums, “Then don’t move.”

And I don’t. Not ever.