CHAPTER 84: POINTING TO LUCA

CHAPTER 84: POINTING TO LUCA
KRISTIAN

The gallery preview ends with polite applause, soft champagne clinks, and the low murmur of cultured compliments.

People begin to drift toward the exit, murmuring about brushstroke technique and symbolism.

Alessandro Moretti is surrounded by art patrons and minor diplomats, giving gracious nods like a practiced politician.

The air smells faintly of old canvas, cologne, and citrus from the lemon trees blooming outside the open terrace doors.

And me, all I can think about is fate and destiny, Lucas’ painting still stuck in my head. 

I spot Henrik and Giovanni deep in conversation. Their body language is stiff and alert, but before I allow myself to read meaning into it, I realize that the only person acting slightly different is Giovanni.

Henrik’s face looks the same as always—composed, severe. Giovanni, on the other hand, looks tense, as if someone is pulling a string attached to his back too tightly.

But I’m only noticing it because I know what happened last night. I’m sure to everyone here, he looks as stiff as any aide should look. 

Luca stands beside me, hands in his pockets, eyes on nothing in particular. I’ve been itching to talk to him since I saw the painting, but I’ve been holding back. I don’t know what he’ll say or how he’ll react, but now, I don’t care. I can’t wait any longer.

“Come with me,” I say under my breath.

He raises his brows briefly but then follows without question. We slip through a side hallway, away from the crowd. It’s quiet here, the walls lined with black-and-white portraits of past Italian prime ministers.

The floor creaks faintly under our shoes.

I stop beneath an antique chandelier and turn to face him.

“What did Giovanni say?” I ask.

Luca lifts a brow. “About what?”

“About last night? What did he say? What did you say? How did things end?”

For some ridiculous reason, I thought it would be honorable not to eavesdrop from the closet. Dumbass.

The light above us flickers, and we both look up briefly. When I look back at Luca, he’s smiling. “The dark corner and the flickering lights? This feels dangerously close to an interrogation, Your Highness.”

“I’m serious.”

He studies me, then gives a crooked half-smile that doesn't deceive me. His eyes hold the truth. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“Luca—”

“I said I handled it,” he repeats, this time more firmly. His voice is still low, casual, but I can hear the edge behind it. “You don’t have to worry.”

I do, though. I worry because Giovanni looked at me like I was a storm about to ruin everything.

I worry because Luca is so obviously dancing around it. And that’s not him. His brutal honesty is one of his many infuriatingly lovable traits.

Before I can push further, the shuffle of approaching shoes echoes down the hall.

I immediately know it’s Giovanni and Henrik, and I turn to confirm my suspicions. The two broad-shouldered men are heading our way, and neither of them looks particularly pleased. 

Luca puts a few inches between us and straightens his posture, eyes still on the men closing in.

Without looking at me, he murmurs, “Next time you want answers, just text me. No need for the detective routine.”

“I don’t have your number,” I murmur back.

He glances sideways, lips tugging up. “Tragic.”

Before I can say anything else, Henrik stops a foot away. “Your Highness, it’s not safe to be in a place like this.” He looks at Luca. “Mr. Moretti, can I kindly ask that you both join the party where we can keep our eyes on you?”

“At all times,” Giovanni says, and his stare lingers.

We walk out together, stiff and silent, all of us pretending nothing ever happened behind the gallery walls.

That night, I don’t sleep again.

I lie in bed, arms behind my head, the ceiling above me cast in silver moonlight, and think of Luca.

The first time I saw him in that nightclub in Södermalm—the strobe lights, the sweat, the throb of music. 

We’d exchanged fake names. Just for fun. Just for one night.

Then we’d agreed to meet again, and when I came back, he’d kissed that girl, and I’d turned around, heart racing, pretending I didn’t care. 

Then life, with its sick sense of humor, brought us together again. Not as Chris and Adrian but as the Prince of Sweden and as the son of the Italian Prime Minister. 

Since then, it’s been nothing short of a shitstorm.

The volunteer projects. The accidents. That night we spent trapped under rubble, bruised and breathless. His fingers brushing mine in the dark. The paint fight.

Every steamy, gut-wrenching kiss.

Every frustrating, tension-filled argument.

And despite the many times I felt like I wouldn’t pull through, I’m here.

The pressure of Sweden is far away—no frozen corridors, no tight collars or perfect posture.

Just sun. Art. And him.

There’s something about being here, away from the palace, that makes everything feel possible. Maybe it’s the Italian charm. Or the way fate keeps drawing us back to each other.

The club. The mission. The painting I bought without knowing it was his.

Every sign is pointing to Luca.

And I’m tired of running from it. 

And the thought—that running is futile, and maybe I should just embrace it—is what puts me to sleep.



The next day, lunch is held on a private terrace in one of the ministry’s guest villas. Wrought iron chairs. Crisp white tablecloths. Pasta so fresh it nearly melts in my mouth.

Luca sits across from me, laughing at something one of the coordinators says. His hand brushes his curls from his face as he tips his head back.

He’s beautiful.

After dessert—cannoli with pistachio and orange peel—I finally get my chance.

I push back from the table, stand, and nod at him. “Walk with me?”

He arches a brow but stands. “Sure.”

We walk past a row of orange trees, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes. The sun is warm on my shoulders, but a shiver runs down my spine. I take a breath.

“Luca,” I begin, voice low. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he murmurs.

I ignore the quip. “I don’t want to keep pretending this is nothing.”

He stops walking.

I stop, too.

I look him straight in the eye. “I know there are risks. I know what’s at stake. But I don’t care. Screw the consequences.” The words sound foreign, falling from my lips. Who am I?

Elise would be proud.

Luca’s mouth parts, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Just as he opens his lips to reply—

“Signor Moretti!”

We both turn. A press handler rushes toward us, clipboard in hand, breathless.

“I’m so sorry,” she pants. “There’s been a problem with the media list for tomorrow’s engagement. The ambassador’s office needs you. Immediately.”

Luca glances at me, jaw tightening.

He hesitates—just a bit.

Then nods. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

The press handler bows slightly to me. “Your Highness.”

I nod back, but I’m still looking at Luca.

He meets my eyes. No smile. No answer.

And then he’s walking away.

The moment slips between us, as fast and easy as breath.

I’m left standing beside the orange trees, hands curled into fists, wondering if fate can only take us so far—before everything else starts pulling us apart.