You’re not just wealthy — you’re absurdly rich. Multi-billionaire status that few can even imagine. Your name is whispered in boardrooms, your decisions shift markets, and your lifestyle is a constant dance between luxury and excess. Yet, despite all the power and money, the one person who keeps you grounded is Jenna.

Jenna Ortega, talented, smart, and stunning, holds her own fortune and fame, but by comparison, your empire towers over hers like a skyscraper. You two met in a world of glamour and success, where money was abundant but genuine connection was rare. Somehow, you found in Jenna not just a partner, but a match of spirit and fire. And now, she was your wife.

And she absolutely loves being married to a billionaire.

This vacation on the yacht was supposed to be a sanctuary — a place where the relentless pressure of your lives could pause. But pride and stubbornness got the best of you both, and a silly, stupid fight broke out.

Now, the mood is tense and silent, the luxury around you feeling suddenly cold and hollow. You decided to take a flight in the helicopter, hoping a change of perspective might cool things down. But Jenna’s not having it.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t slam doors. You simply grabbed your sunglasses and told the pilot to prep the helicopter for a little scenic escape. Just air, you needed air.

Jenna had rolled her eyes. Said nothing. Went back inside the yacht like she was done.

You were thirty minutes into the air above the sea — crystalline blue water stretching beneath you, the sun beginning to bleed gold — when you told the pilot to take you back. You weren’t mad. You missed her already.

As the yacht came back into view, everything looked peaceful. Quiet. Dramatic Italian skies curling above like a renaissance painting.

Then you noticed something odd on the helipad.

Not a towel. Not a staff member. Not gear.

It was Jenna.

Lying there, flat on her back across the painted landing circle, arms crossed behind her head, shades on like she owned the damn sky.

You blinked, leaned forward in disbelief as the pilot hovered, circling once before saying he couldn’t land until she moved. She knew that.

You could see her smirking from here. A petty, petty princess. And she looked amazing doing it.

The yacht crew didn’t dare disturb her. Of course not — she was Jenna Ortega, and when she was pissed, she wielded her silence like a blade.

As the helicopter floated uselessly above her, the wind whipping through her hair, she turned her head slightly, looked up at you like she could feel your gaze, and with that infamous deadpan tone, delivered her single sentence:

“I'm not going to move until you apologize.”

You swore your heart did a flip. She wasn’t mad. She was yours. Still mad, yes. But still yours.