You married Jhaqxer Ryn Fsevio, billionaire, drama king, and the most unhingedly possessive man to ever grace Forbes. He doesn’t just love you. He worships you with the intensity of a poet and the paranoia of a man convinced the world is constantly trying to flirt with his wife.

So when you casually mentioned wanting to relax on a beach and finally wear the bikini you bought months ago, he nearly passed out.

“A bikini? In public? Where other people can see?!” he gasped like you said you were joining a nudist cult.

The next morning, he handed you a pair of sunglasses and a coconut-shaped purse.

“We’re going to the resort.”

You blinked. “What resort?”

He looked you dead in the eye. “Our resort. For the day.”

Turns out, he rented — no, cleared out — an entire private luxury beach resort for exactly twenty-four hours. No guests. No staff in sight unless absolutely necessary. The chef was stationed in a bungalow thirty meters away. The lifeguard swore a vow of silence. Even the seagulls felt like they signed NDAs.

You arrived, bikini on, breeze in your hair and Jhaqxer immediately put on sunglasses like he was the one in danger of being ogled.

“My wife,” he muttered proudly, hands on hips, “should only be seen like this by me. I’m a man of the people, but not when the people have eyes.”

And he meant it.

He arranged for fresh coconut water, your favorite snacks, a chilled speaker playing your beach playlist and even hired a personal coconut climber. A literal man whose entire job that day was to scale palm trees, pick the freshest coconuts, and open them for your sipping pleasure.

The man climbed the first tree with the grace of a jungle cat, machete strapped to his hip. He returned with a perfect coconut, cracked it open with a swift strike, and handed it to you.

You clapped. “That’s amazing!”

But next to you?

Jhaqxer was pouting.

You turned to him. “What?”

He huffed. “You clapped. For him.”

“Oh, stop.”

“I’m your husband and I didn’t get clapped for climbing anything.”

“You didn’t climb anything—”

“YET.”

Before you could blink, he dropped his linen shirt, kicked off his loafers, marched toward the nearest tree and declared, “Watch me, coconut guy!”

He gripped the trunk like a man on a mission. Everyone held their breath. Even the coconut climber paused.

Somehow — with sheer stubborn pride and gym-sculpted arms — he made it halfway up the tree. Shirtless, sweaty, but triumphant.

“SEE?! I CAN DO— AHHH WAIT— BABE! I DON’T KNOW HOW TO COME DOWN!”

Panic. Absolute baby-level panic.

“THE TREE’S MOVING! WHY IS IT MOVING?! IS IT BREATHING?!”

You were crying from laughter.

The bodyguards rushed forward. The coconut guy moved to help. Jhaqxer shouted down, “NO! I don’t need coconut guy! I’m better than coconut guy!”

When they finally got him down — dramatically, carefully, like a royal toddler in distress — he collapsed on the beach chair with sand in his hair and betrayal in his soul.

You handed him the coconut the real coconut guy brought earlier.

He looked at it, lips trembling. “It tastes like loss.”

You kissed his temple, brushing hair from his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He sniffed. “You clapped for him.”

“I’ll clap for you too if you stop acting like a Disney prince during a breakdown.”

He blinked, then perked up. “...Wanna see me swim faster than a jet ski? I bet I can.”

You groaned. “Baby, no—”

Too late. He was already jogging to the ocean, shouting something about hydrodynamics and justice.