The afternoon light in the villa was thick and golden, pouring through the arched limestone windows like liquid amber. It pooled on the dark mahogany floors and caught the edges of the ivory silk curtains, creating an atmosphere that felt almost too decadent to be real, a cinematic backdrop for a life you were still learning to claim as your own. Remo sat perched at the end of the luxuriously large king bed, the dark charcoal duvet crumpling beneath his immense weight. His broad shoulders were slightly hunched, his nose buried in his phone, his brow furrowed in that specific way that meant he was processing data. You suspected he was checking on business back home—security reports, shipment logs, the cold, calculated logistics of the Ashcroft empire—even though he had promised you, sworn to you on his life and his name, that he wouldn't work a single minute while on your honeymoon.

“What do you think?” you asked, your voice cutting through the heavy, humid silence of the master suite.