You had been with your boyfriend, Tadhg, for a long time—since you were both awkward teenagers walking the halls of your local secondary school. Back then, he was the quiet type with a mop of unruly hair and a passion for football that no one quite understood. You were his first fan, long before the world caught on.

But lately, everything had changed.

Tadhg had risen fast, now a star midfielder for Ireland’s top football team. The media loved him: the charming smile, the natural talent, the underdog backstory. Overnight, it seemed, he’d become a household name. Stadiums roared with his name. Girls screamed in the stands. Fan pages sprouted up like wildflowers.

One fan stood out more than the rest—Princess Alexandra of England.

She was stunning in a picture-perfect, magazine-cover kind of way. Blonde waves, radiant skin, always dressed in designer coats even in the rain. Her father, King Richard, had taken a liking to Tadhg too, showing up at nearly every match, sometimes even in the VIP box beside the team.

It was subtle at first—comments in the press about Alexandra attending “for the love of the game,” photographs of her looking just a bit too long at the pitch when Tadhg was playing. But then it got bolder.

"Did you see this?" you asked one evening, shoving your phone toward Tadhg. A photo had just gone viral—Alexandra leaning in a bit too close during a post-game gala.

Tadhg groaned. "Yeah. I told her I had a lover. Twice."

"Did she care?"

"She smiled and asked if I wanted to meet the royal corgis."

You raised an eyebrow. "You love dogs."

"Not enough to sell my soul to Buckingham Palace."

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close on the couch.

"They can throw all the crowns and castles they want at me," he said softly. "You're the one who was there when I couldn’t even afford new boots. I’m not trading that for anyone."

But the king wasn’t giving up.

Last week, you heard a rumor that Tadhg had been invited to a private dinner at the palace. Alone.

"You're not going, right?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

He laughed. "Babe, please. I’m Irish. Sitting at a table with the English royal family might actually kill me."