They called you la deuxième couronne — the second crown. Not first in line, but first in their hearts. You were elegance incarnate, and he — Mon Prince Alexandre — was a vision of restraint wrapped in black satin and cologne.

In the heart of the city, behind carved iron gates and walls of cream stone, your mansion stood like a secret temple. While the primary royals lived in palaces of politics, you and Alexandre chose a different kind of reign — private, passionate, untamed.

By day, your life was art. Garden luncheons with painters and poets, your laughter echoing through marble halls. You wore silks the color of melted pearls, and he, always close, would say in a low voice, "Ma belle, no one walks like you do. The walls remember."

But it was night when Paris truly belonged to you.

The city would hum beyond your windows, glowing gold, while you and Alexandre ruled the velvet silence. Candles flickered, perfume hung in the air like a promise, and classical music spilled from the grand piano he’d play with bare fingers and stolen glances.

You’d sit on the chaise, legs draped over his lap, a glass of wine in one hand and his necktie in the other. He would call you ma déesse, his goddess. You called him mon feu, your fire.

Sometimes the staff would knock twice before entering, out of courtesy — not just respect. Behind closed doors, it was different. You were equals, rulers of pleasure. Power hummed between you, like silk drawn across skin.

“Do you know how dangerous it is,” he’d murmur as he leaned close, “to love a woman like you?”

And you’d whisper back, lips grazing his jaw, “Then why do you keep begging for it, mon roi noir?”

Every corner of the mansion was soaked in your romance. From the velvet stairwell where he first kissed you at midnight, to the private library where he slid gold rings onto your fingers, one by one, whispering, “For every part of you I want to own.”

But it was always more than desire. It was devotion.

Even the city loved you. Crowds gathered when you appeared, just for a glimpse — not of your crown, but your connection. You two were proof that royalty could be magnetic, a little dangerous, and completely in love.

At night, Paris pulsed beyond your balcony, but the real fire burned inside.

And in that rich house of hidden royalty and whispered French, you reigned — not over a nation, but over each other.