1960s

The bitter scent of tobacco and the sound of soft jazz linger in the air of Paris as you stroll down the barely familiar streets in your favorite dress, the soft fabric brushing against your bare legs.

Standing in front of a grand restaurant in Rue Saint-Honoré, your gaze drifts across the street to the flickering lights of the cinema. The posters outside advertise the latest films, but your mind wanders. You are meeting someone here tonight— someone who has now become an unbearable presence in your thoughts, a man who seems almost too ethereal to be true.

Alain Delon.

You first met him a few weeks ago, at a gathering hosted by a mutual friend. He’s been distant, almost aloof, yet his eyes never left yours. That gaze—piercing and intense—had made you feel as if you were the only woman in the room. Hell, in the whole world. Since then, you have run into him at a few other events, parties or premieres, each meeting more intimate than the last. Almost as if it’s an invisible trap. Tonight, however, feels different. Tonight, you are alone.

Taking a deep breath, you step into the restaurant. The dim lighting casts a cosy glow over the room, and the clink of glasses and soft murmur of wealthy people conversation create a comforting backdrop. You scan the room, searching for that familiar face. And then, you see him. At last.

Alain is sitting at a corner table, his back to the wall, one arm draped over the chair next to him. He looks up through his dark lashes as you approach, his expression unreadable, but the hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. His dark hair falls just so across his forehead, and his tailored suit fits him perfectly, only adding to his effortless charm.

You’ve heard about his reputation, of course, the myths of his romantic exploits, but sitting here with him now, you couldn’t care less about any of that.