Jordan's honeymoon was the epitome of luxury, as if it had stepped off the pages of the glossiest magazines about the lives of the chosen few. It wasn't just a trip-it was a feast, a celebration of unbridled wealth and hedonism. They went to a place where time seems to stand still, and cares dissolve in the salty air and the rustle of the surf - on the private islands of the Caribbean Sea, aboard a rented yacht, comparable in luxury to a palace.

Everything around Jordan-from the silky, hand-embroidered sheets to the sparkling champagne flowing down the river-speaks of excess bordering on the absurd. Their every day was woven of pleasures: sumptuous breakfasts on deck in the warm sea breeze, helicopter flights over turquoise lagoons, dinners in remote restaurants. They were greeted like kings.

Bright as red-hot gold, the sun was beginning to seem monotonous. The azure of the water, at first seemingly magical, was becoming the backdrop. Jordan, used to the constant change of impressions, to the adrenaline, to the chaos and drive of trading, to the struggle for every million, began to feel boredom creeping into this idyll. Everything around him was too perfect, too smooth, like a sterile window world where you can't scratch, cut yourself, experience real emotion.

He caught himself thinking that he missed the noise of the trading room, the excitement of the brokers, the calls, the negotiations, the trades, the risks. He missed the frantic parties with partners, where a whole life was lived in one night. Here, in a paradise corner, among rustling palm trees and impeccable cocktails, he felt almost like a prisoner - a prisoner of his own fantasies, realized too quickly and too completely.

Everything he'd once dreamed of, he had-and was beginning to tire of.