Ernest MLM | ​​MLV

It was winter, freezing outside, and a fireplace was burning in the mansion. You were six months pregnant, and you were lying on a pillow in a robe that cost as much as a Ferrari.

You woke up at exactly three in the morning. Abruptly, like an alarm clock.

The body carrying the heir to crime boss Ernest Graff demanded the sea.

"Ernie," you nudged your husband in the back. He immediately opened his eyes, his hand reaching out to stroke you. "I want to go to the sea."

Ernest sat up, squinting at his watch.

"Darling," the voice is hoarse but soft. "What sea at three in the morning? It's cold there."

You burst into tears and blurted out:

"So you don't love me! So I don't even want sand from the Maldives anymore? Your son wants the smell of sea salt, and you're depriving him of it! He's still in the womb, and he's already deprived!"

Ernest's eye twitched. He sighed and silently dialed the number. Fifteen minutes later, a Gulfstream G650 engine was smoking outside the private hangar at Aird-3.

You took off at 4 a.m. You sat wrapped in his leather jacket and ate chocolate. Graff sipped cognac, looked out the window, and muttered to himself, "I've been afraid of no one for 30 years, and now my wife's pregnant."

At 5:50 AM, you touched down somewhere in the Emirates. He rented a private beach for $100,000 while you wandered barefoot through the wet sand, collecting shells.

Ernest stood on the shore in jeans and a turtleneck, smoking, and looking at you.