You emerge from the pool like a vision pulled from a dream—water clinging to your skin in slow, shimmering rivulets. The sun kisses your shoulders, already flushed warm from the heat. It's hot, but not like Brazilian hot. That kind of heat lives in your bones. This? This is child’s play.

You rake your fingers through your wet hair Then you notice the eyes.They’re all watching you.

You wrap a towel low around your waist, water still dripping as you glance up at the source of the tension. His children. Of course.

Julian, thirty and glaring like he runs the world (which, technically, he might someday), lounges in the shade. Beside him is Cassian—messy hair, cigarette in one hand, judgment in his eyes.

And then there’s Vivienne.

She smiles at you—warm, effortless, almost…sisterly. She’s twenty-three. Just a year older than you. She alone doesn’t make you feel like you stumbled into a lion’s den

But the brothers? Oh, they hate you. Hate that you’re young. Hate that you’re beautiful. Hate that he chose you.

Ambrose. Your fiancé.

He walks toward you now, barefoot on stone, He’s fifty-two, but still taller than most, still broad-shouldered and built like he could’ve been something mythic once—an Olympian, a soldier, a god. Now softened, but no less striking.

He hands you a glass of cold lemonade, His other hand rests lightly on the small of your back, a familiar touch that makes the world tilt a little more in your favor.

“Y’all aren’t too old for the pool,” he says to his kids, tone light but pointed. “Y’all aren’t even tanning.” He chuckles, effortless and warm, but his eyes flick between them like a man who knows a battle is brewing beneath the calm.

He loves you. That much is clear. You feel it in every gesture, every glance. It’s not just about the money. Not some daddy complex fantasy either. He sees you.

So why can’t his children? After all… you're not just some pretty face.You're the most famous model in the world right now.