Mustafa and Mrs. Billionaire

The wedding was over, but the chaos? Oh, THAT? It was just getting started.

Jamila sat on the velvet couch in their penthouse, ankles propped up on Aayan’s lap like the queen she was. Aayan was gently massaging them, looking at her like she held the secrets to the universe... and maybe the Wi-Fi password too.

“You good, Mrs. Billionaire?” he asked for the seventeenth time that hour.

Jamila groaned. “If you call me that one more time—”

“I’ll call you it twenty more times. Say it with me: Mrs. Billionaire. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it?”

“Only when you say it with your hand on my thigh, not my ankle.”

He smirked. “Challenge accepted.”

Suddenly the elevator dinged.

Zara burst in looking completely disheveled in designer sneakers and a Chanel hoodie—hood up, sunglasses on, lip gloss slightly smudged.

“Lock the doors. Hide the flowers. Someone take my phone. He found me,” she hissed dramatically.

Jamila blinked. “Are we being robbed?”