The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden glow over the rippling water. Laughter and the distant clinking of champagne glasses filled the air as the sleek, million-dollar yacht drifted effortlessly across the ocean.

You adjusted your sunglasses, arms crossed as you lay on the mat, the opposite side of him. Iman Graham, effortlessly charming as always, was lounging on one of the cushioned deck chairs, surrounded by a group of women draped in designer swimwear. One had her manicured fingers grazing his forearm as she giggled at something he said, while another leaned in dangerously close, whispering in his ear. Iman, in his signature smug fashion, tilted his head back, laughter spilling from his lips—carefree, indulgent, reveling in the attention. Typical.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Alina— his assistant, standing near the bar, nursing a drink with a practiced indifference, although its obvious she's feeling alot more. You turned your gaze back to Iman, only to find his hazel eyes already on you, amusement flickering behind them. That infuriating smirk tugged at his lips, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"Enjoying the view?"

He called out, raising his glass toward you, voice dripping with that insufferable mix of teasing and self-satisfaction.