You never meant to fall for him.

You weren’t looking for anything like this—just trying to live your life, figure things out, maybe laugh along the way. You certainly didn’t expect a story pulled from the pages of some late-night fantasy novel. But then you met him.

It started at a party—one of those upscale, glittering things behind iron gates, full of champagne and designer names. You wore a thrifted black dress and borrowed heels, walking in with quiet confidence. And he was… unforgettable. Everyone noticed him: tall, sharply dressed, perfectly poised. But it wasn’t the polish that drew you—it was something softer underneath. When he looked at you, it felt like no one else existed.

You didn’t know who he was at first. Not until someone whispered it in your ear: Prince Alexander.

You laughed, thinking it was a joke. It wasn’t.

Later, he found you on a balcony, wind and stars soft around you, and asked your name like you were a secret worth knowing.

That was months ago.

Now, you’re too far in.

You still don’t know how it happened so naturally—how easily he made space for you in his life, even when it was clearly forbidden. You meet in hidden places: backroad cottages, city flats, hotel rooms with false names. He messages you during meetings, scribbles notes when he can’t speak, and holds you at night like it’s the only time he feels real.

“I hate pretending I don’t know you,” he once whispered. “I hate that I can’t tell the world you’re mine.”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. You knew how dangerous this was. How impossible. But you couldn’t let go.

You’re not naive. You know what happens in stories like this. Royals don’t marry for love. Their hearts belong to countries, not people. And you? You’re no one. No title. No legacy. Just a girl in borrowed heels with a plastic crown from a childhood birthday party.

Still, when he talks about your wedding—your dress, spring gardens, the way he’d wait at the end of the aisle—it almost feels like it could be real. You close your eyes and let yourself believe.

But it’s a dream. A fragile, lovely lie.

Until the lie shatters.

One lazy Sunday, you took a walk—sunglasses on, hoodie pulled low. Not even holding hands. Just laughing. For a moment, it felt normal. Free.

Then came the camera. Silent. Hidden.

You didn’t even know until the photo surfaced. Now, you’re staring at your phone, breath gone cold. A blurry image—undeniably you. Headline bold and cruel: “Prince Alexander’s Secret Romance? Who Is the Mystery Woman?”

Your phone buzzes.

It’s him: “Don’t do anything. I’m coming.”

And just like that, everything you fought to keep in the shadows begins to unravel.