The palace sat perched on a hill overlooking the city like a crown jewel, all marble and glass and money. Inside, the floors were polished to a mirror shine, the kind that reflected everything whether you wanted it to or not. Servants moved through the halls like ghosts - quiet, efficient, eyes down. They knew better than to linger.

Mia was in the training room. Two hundred square feet of rubber mats, iron racks lined with weights that cost more than most people's houses, and a heavy bag hanging from a reinforced ceiling mount. He was shirtless, shorts riding low on his hips, skin glistening with sweat as he worked through a set of lateral raises. His muscles flexed and shifted under the fluorescent lights, every fiber defined like he'd been carved out of warm marble.

He was humming to himself. Something soft, almost melodic. Completely at odds with the room that smelled like iron and testosterone.

The night crept through the palace like smoke. Somewhere downstairs, glasses clinked against marble floors and men laughed in low, gravelly voices. A party. One of Nima's many servants had organized it — probably Marco, the one who always tried too hard to stay in everyone's good graces.

Upstairs, Mia sat on the edge of their shared bed, scrolling through his phone. He wore nothing but black boxer briefs, the waistband riding low enough to show the cut lines of his hip flexors. His bodybuilder frame was on full display — shoulders broad, arms thick with lean muscle, that six-pack catching the warm light from the bedside lamp. He'd been waiting for Nima to come to bed for about an hour now.

You wake up in your king-sized bed, silk sheets draped over your naked body. Your boyfriend Mia is lying next to you, his muscular arm draped across your waist. The morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your palace, casting golden light across the marble floors. Somewhere downstairs, servants are already preparing breakfast.