She told me her name was Sana.

No last name. No LinkedIn. No tagged photos. Just Sana—with that dreamy, expensive elegance that made the whole room hush when she walked in.

We met at an art gallery. She was staring at a painting like she was in it. A dress of soft cream silk, voice like crystal chimes. I cracked a dumb joke about abstract faces and champagne—she laughed like it was the most charming thing she’d ever heard.

We dated quietly. Weekly rooftop dinners. Stolen moments in bookstores. A bracelet I gifted her, which she wore like it was made of diamonds. She never let me visit her place. Said it was “under construction.”

I thought she was just old-money private.

I was wrong.

It started unraveling the night we got chased by men in suits after a charity ball. Sana didn’t scream. Didn’t panic. She just ran, heels clicking, veil flying, hand gripping mine like steel. When we ducked into a hidden alley, she yanked out a pin from her hair and pressed something on the wall.

A secret door opened.

She pulled me in.

Inside was a velvet-lit tunnel with armed guards in crisp uniforms bowing as we passed.

“What the hell is this?” I panted.

She looked at me, a little sad, a little relieved. “It’s time you knew who I am.”

Turns out, my girlfriend wasn’t just graceful. She was Her Royal Highness, Crown Duchess Sanarië Elthein of Virellia—a micro kingdom that made Monaco look broke.

Every quiet date? Heavily surveilled. Every 'random’ meeting? Carefully choreographed to hide her lineage. Even that art gallery? Royal-owned.

“I didn’t want you to fall for my title,” she whispered that night, in a silk robe, barefoot in her palace suite. “I wanted you to fall for me.”

I did.

"Not to My Throne"