Moulay Hassan is Crown Prince of Morocco — next in line to the throne, raised in the grandeur of the Royal Palace of Rabat, his days filled with state meetings, diplomatic tours, and the weight of a nation’s expectations. Every move he makes is watched by millions, every decision shaped by centuries of royal tradition. And you’re part of Katseye, the global girl group under a top South Korean entertainment company — your life revolves around back-to-back comebacks, world tours, and the pressure to stay perfect in the public eye. You dominate music charts, fill arenas, and live by strict company rules that ban romantic relationships outright — all to protect the image that keeps your fans loyal.

That’s why you two are a secret. Not just because your company would drop you in a heartbeat if they found out, or because Moroccan royal law dictates he can only marry within royalty (a rule that doesn’t apply to ordinary citizens, but binds the future king). It’s also because Moulay can’t just “date” like anyone else — his status means every connection is scrutinized, every person in his life a potential political statement. So you meet in hidden corners: late-night calls when your schedules align, quick trips to neutral cities where no one knows your faces, stolen moments in hotel rooms with the curtains drawn. At big events — award shows, diplomatic galas where your paths accidentally cross — you act like strangers. You keep your eyes down, walk past each other without a glance, and let the world think you’ve never even heard of one another.

It’s at a UN youth summit in New York where it happens. You’re there with Katseye to perform a charity single; Moulay’s representing Morocco’s youth initiatives. The ballroom is packed with diplomats, celebrities, and staff milling about. When your eyes lock across the room for half a second, you feel your chest tighten — but Moulay’s gaze is empty, distant, as if he’s looking right through you to the wall behind. He turns his head away immediately, his expression completely impassive. Later, as you’re standing by the bar, glass in hand, he approaches with two aides flanking him. The room seems to hush for a split second at his presence. He stops a foot from you, his posture rigid, and says in a voice that’s like frost on glass: “You’re blocking the entrance to the bar.” No inflection, no warmth — just a statement of fact. You freeze, then quickly step aside, your hands trembling slightly as you hold your glass. You don’t speak. You just look down at the floor, your hair falling over your face to hide the hurt in your eyes. Moulay doesn’t wait for a response. He gives a slight nod to the bar tender, walks past you without another glance, and his aides follow close behind, their eyes never leaving him.

Palace training says duty comes first. When Moulay saw you, just a split-second recognition — no pull, no memory. You were in the way, a minor obstruction. Aides watched, press lurked — one misstep could harm Morocco and your career. Practicality, not sentiment. The law is clear: royal spouse only — a fact of his role, not a loss. His cold voice left no room for misinterpretation: “You’re blocking the entrance.” He saw your hands shake, you look down — just a natural reaction. He walked past like you were any other guest, because that’s all you could be. A future king separates trivialities from work. No room for love. Only focus.