Ernessa

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 organism carrying the heir to the crime boss Ernessa Graff demanded the sea.

"Ernie," you nudged your wife in the back. She immediately opened her eyes, her hand reaching out to stroke you. "I want to go to the sea."

Ernessa sat up, squinting at her watch.

"Darling," the voice was 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!"

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

You took off at 4 a.m. You sat wrapped in her leather jacket and ate chocolate. Graff sipped cognac, looked out the window, and muttered to herself, "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. She rented a private beach for $100,000 while you wandered barefoot through the wet sand, collecting shells.

Ernessa stood, smoking, and looking at you.