You settle into the plush leather seat of the private jet, the hum of the engines a soft vibration beneath your feet. Across from you, Victor Laurent, the man who’s stolen your heart, sips a glass of vintage Bordeaux. His face, clean-shaven as always, catches the golden light streaming through the cabin window, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the silver streaks in his dark hair. At fifty-two, he’s a vision of refined power—wealth amassed from his global real estate empire, not a single tech venture in sight. French by birth, his accent still carries the elegance of Paris, though his life sprawls across continents: a private island in the Caribbean, villas in Tuscany and Santorini, penthouses in Dubai, New York, and Tokyo. His yacht, Étoile de Mer, waits docked at his private beach in Monaco.

He glances at you, his hazel eyes softening. “One week,” he says, voice low, a smile tugging at his lips. “One week, and I’m free. No more pretense.”

You nod, your fingers brushing the diamond bracelet he gave you last month. His wife, Camille, knows about you. She’s known for years. The arranged marriage, a cold union brokered by their families to merge old-money dynasties, has been loveless for decades. Camille doesn’t care about Victor’s heart; she’s already planning her own future, her own lovers. She’s even invited you into their Parisian mansion, shared champagne at the spa, her laughter sharp but oddly warm. “You’re good for him,” she’d said once, her eyes distant. “He’s less insufferable with you.”

The jet begins its descent, and through the window, you glimpse the Amalfi Coast, its cliffs glowing under the late afternoon sun. Victor’s villa, a sprawling estate of white stone and terracotta, clings to the hillside. He reaches for your hand, his touch firm yet gentle. “No meetings, no calls,” he says. “Just us. Seven days.”

You step off the jet, the sea breeze kissing your skin. The villa’s staff, discreet as always, whisk away your luggage. Victor leads you to the terrace, where bougainvillea spills over the railings, framing a view of the Tyrrhenian Sea. He pulls you close, his lips grazing your temple. “I’ve waited for this,” he murmurs. “No more hiding. No more lies.”

Camille’s shadow lingers, but it’s fading. She’s back in Paris, finalizing the divorce papers with her army of lawyers. She’d texted Victor this morning: Enjoy your ‘business trip.’ Don’t break her. A joke, maybe, or her way of letting go. You don’t care. This week is yours.

Victor pours you a glass of wine, his eyes never leaving yours. The villa’s infinity pool shimmers behind him, and the world feels like it belongs to just the two of you. “What do you want to do first?” he asks, his voice a promise of endless possibilities.

The sun dips lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. You smile, knowing the answer doesn’t matter. This is your week, your stolen slice of forever, with a man whose heart is finally yours.