Sofia's POV
It's been exactly one hour since we arrived at the island villa, and I still feel like I've stepped into a drama scene — you know, the ones where the heroine blinks in slow motion while the hero casually drops millions like it's nothing.
I mean… the surprise trip itself? Fine. I can process that.
But the funds?
The private jet.
The villa with marble floors, ocean views, and an infinity pool so perfect I feel guilty even breathing near it.
How? How did Khalid pull this off?
Yes, yes, I know he's the first son of the famous Voss family, but they barely acknowledge his existence. They wouldn't hand him this much money just so he can whisk me off on a honeymoon that isn't even an official honeymoon.
So where did the money come from?
Is he… a gangster leader?
A mafia boss?
Or—dramatic gasp—could my mysterious husband be… a thief?
I slapped my cheeks lightly.
"No, Sofia. Don't think like that. He's your husband, for crying out loud."
Just then, my phone rang, yanking me out of my overactive imagination. The screen lit up with the name: Cute Bodyguard.
Oh yes, you guessed it right — it was Hajara. My best friend, my emotional support system, and the most dramatic human being on earth.
I answered, and before I could even say "hello," I heard it:
"Sooooooofffffffiiiiiaaaaa!"
I immediately pulled the phone away from my ear. My poor eardrum. I swear, one day this girl will make me deaf.
Bracing myself, I put the phone back to my ear.
"Sofia, how dare you go to your husband's house and stay there for two whole weeks without calling me?!"
Her voice was pure soap opera energy — dramatic, slightly offended, and definitely loud enough for the seagulls outside to hear.
I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Hajara—"
"No! Don't 'Hajara' me. Do you know how many times I almost came to drag you out myself? Anyway, I've already made reservations at your favorite restaurant. We're meeting today. No excuses. I need the full gist about your two weeks with Khalid."
Her excitement was contagious, and I couldn't stop the little giggle that escaped. "Yeah, about that… I can't meet you today."
There was a pause.
A dangerous pause.
"Why?" she asked slowly, like she was already sharpening her pitchfork.
"I'm… on an unexpected one-week vacation with Khalid."
The scream that followed nearly blew the phone speaker. "WHAAAAAT?! Were you forced? Tell me you weren't forced, Sofia! I swear, I'll—"
I had to cut her off fast before she called Interpol. "No, no! I came willingly! Relax! It's fine!"
"Fine?!" she squealed. "Girl, you're on an island with your husband. This is not fine. This is history. Do you understand? HISTORY. You better not waste this chance, Sofia. And I expect details. Don't you dare come back without a romantic story."
I rolled my eyes again, though I was grinning like an idiot.
"Bye, Hajara," I said, ending the call before she could demand I FaceTime her from the pool.
I dropped my phone on the bed, sinking into the ridiculously soft mattress. I glanced toward the terrace where the sound of the waves drifted in.
One week in this villa with Khalid Voss.
One week with the man who confuses me, infuriates me… and maybe, just maybe, steals my breath without even trying.
And yes — I still have to find out if he's secretly a mafia boss.
---
"Find out if who's a mafia boss?"
I froze. My eyes darted toward the doorway — and there he was.
Khalid Voss, in a white button-up with the sleeves rolled, leaning against the frame like some overconfident magazine cover model. His mask was off, his hair slightly messy, and his expression… unreadable.
"Oh," I said too quickly. "You heard that?"
His lips twitched, the tiniest hint of a smirk. "Considering you were talking to yourself out loud… yes."
I sat up straighter, pretending my cheeks weren't burning. "It's called thinking out loud. People do it all the time."
"Do they also accuse their husbands of being criminals while they're at it?"
"I wasn't accusing," I said defensively. "I was just… exploring possibilities."
He stepped inside, and the closer he got, the harder it was to breathe normally. "What kind of possibilities?"
I swallowed. "The… fictional kind?"
He stopped at the foot of the bed, tilting his head like he was studying me. Then, in that deep, calm voice of his, he said, "Careful, wife. If I were a mafia boss, you'd be sleeping in the same villa as a very dangerous man."
I blinked at him. "Wait, are you admitting it?"
His smirk deepened. "No. But it's fun to watch you guess."
And just like that, he turned and left, leaving me staring after him like an idiot.