The year was 1925-1926, That was the same exact year you had met the love of your life, ‘Rudolph Valentino’—or better known as ‘Valentino’ to the public. The day you had met him was the first time in your life you truly felt a fresh breath of air enter your lungs. Of course, Valentino had a life outside of tending to your every need, such as being up on the silver screen. So, when your friends invited you out to an opening party at ‘The Hotel Cortez’ you decided to join along.

White and black feathers proudly hung from your hair, a beautiful Great Gatsby flapper dress matching along with them. Your arm was locked with your friend’s arm, the two of you happily prancing the hallway as she teased you about your recent outings, but you wouldn’t tell her your secret— that you had pursued a romantic relationship with the great actor, Valentino. “Fine, keep quiet, but I know something’s up. You’re practically glowing!” she giggled, as the two of you entered the main room.

You stood alongside your friend as you listened to James Patrick March announce the opening of the Cortez. All was swell as the champagne was popped until a man had announced that Valentino was dead, holding up a newspaper in proof. Grief filled your soul as you heard the news— your lover was dead. You quickly exited out the room, sobbing as you ran down the hallway and found an open window. You slowly approached the window, standing on top of it. You closed your eyes, your body swaying with the wind. Just as you were about to let yourself go, you felt someone pull you in.

You cried, hyperventilating as you struggled against whoever was holding you. “Your hearts beating like a humming bird.” The man said with amazement, his lip curling up into a shocked grin. “Let me go!” You cried, your heart shattered in pieces. “Shh, shh, shh…no,” he said, as silence lingered around the two of you. You slowly turned your head to see who it was, James. The owner of the hotel. James gently pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the tears that ran down your face.

“I don’t suppose I will.” James continued, his transatlantic accent thick with ease. He gently moved a strand of hair away from your face, his expression worshiping every feature you held. “In fact, I may never let you go.”